


If I Could Trade Mistakes For Sheep, Count Me Away Before You Sleep

by alisaj



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Angst, Erica and Boyd are alive, Especially Derek, Hurt Stiles, Idiots, M/M, Pining, Protective Derek, Sad Stiles, Senior year, Witches, after season 3a, but it doesn't really fit anywhere in the storyverse sorry, new schools, scott is in derek's pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisaj/pseuds/alisaj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Thing is, Stiles," Derek says, his voice hard and unfaltering. "I didn't sign up for you. You just hung around until we got used to you being here."</p><p>That stings. He hadn't realised how Derek feels about him. They've been getting on quite well, teaming up on little missions and bantering back and forth without malice. Stiles sometimes lets Derek crash in his room after a big fight, trying not to let on how intriguing he finds the werewolf.</p><p>"Well now we can get used to you not being here. You're a liability, Stilinski. You can't protect yourself and we always end up having to help you when we've got more important things to do. You're out of the pack."</p><p>or</p><p>The one where Derek is a terrible Alpha and Stiles ends up walking into a big pile of shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Could Trade Mistakes For Sheep, Count Me Away Before You Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from Panic! at the Disco - Trade Mistakes. This is my first Teen Wolf fic (and the first I've ever published so please be kind!). I've probably mucked up a load of stuff and it's not beta'd so I apologise for any mistakes (and it's also written in British English not American). Enjoy!

"I thought everything was gonna go back to normal," Stiles whines.

Isaac is stood at his front door (surprisingly not using Stiles' window as a wolfy entrance) with blood on his cheek and a desperate expression on his face. He appears to have healed, but the red streaks create a stark contrast against his pale skin.

"Please, Stiles," Isaac begs. He has this tendency to look a little bit like a lost puppy, and Stiles can never say no to that.

"Where's everyone else?"

Isaac's brown eyes flicker with something Stiles can't read at first. But then even without a heightened sense of smell, which would totally come in useful, he realises it's fear. Isaac's scared, and this scares Stiles more than he ever lets anyone know. Frightened werewolves scare the shit out of him.

"I don't know, Stiles. All I know is they tried to take me and Scott and I only just managed to get away. I've tried everyone else and they're all gone."

Stiles wants to grumble at the fact that Isaac's turned up on Stiles' doorstep as a last resort, but he knows it makes sense for Isaac to check for the other wolves first. Besides, he's a senior now, and aren't they meant to be mature?

"Well what am I supposed to do about it? I don't know who it was or where they are or what they want!"

Isaac glances over his shoulder, shuffling his weight between his feet. "I think I know where they are. I need you to bring your wolfsbane and mountain ash and do all your clever little tricks."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. His well-thought out plans involving substances that affect the supernatural are not little tricks; if anyone's doing tricks it's Isaac, the dog. Isaac notices Stiles' unimpressed expression and backtracks.

"You know I didn't mean to say it like that. Come on, Stiles, it's your pack. You've got to help me!"

There's a pause, and then Stiles shrugs. "I was always going to. Let me get my bag. I'm gonna call Deaton too, just let him know what's going on. Just in case."

He can practically hear Isaac rolling his eyes as he takes the stairs two at a time to collect his ready-made up bag full of supernatural stuff. Deaton's been giving him lessons and he's really learned a thing or two. He keeps the bag at the back of his wardrobe, away from his dad's prying eyes; even though his dad is in on the wolf stuff now Stiles doesn't really like telling him all the dangerous things he gets up to.

Trying not to let Isaac now how nervous he is, Stiles comes back down after he's made a hurried call to Deaton and locks up as the Sheriff is still out. But Stiles is worried. Where the fuck is Scott? And the rest of the pack? It's not like this is something they'd been expecting, something Stiles has been able to research... It's totally out of the blue. Deaton hadn't been able to tell him anything.

"Taking the Jeep?" Stiles asks, assuming by Isaac's lost look on his front path that he'd run over here without thinking of how he was going to get back.

"Yeah, the Jeep."

Isaac's still got blood all down him although he's already healed, so Stiles stuffs him into the car as soon as possible to avoid him being spotted by nosy neighbours. The last thing he needs is the Sheriff being called to his own house because his son looks like he's trying to dispose of a dead body.

"So where am I going?" Stiles asks once he's pulled out into the street. Isaac's knee is jumping up and down and it's making Stiles' heart flutter nervously. "Stop that."

"Sorry," Isaac replies, stilling his knee. "I can smell their trail leads out west through the woods, but I haven't been close enough to find out exactly where they are yet."

"You said you knew!" Stiles squeaks, pulling up at a red light in the middle of town. "I can't drive my baby into battle without knowing where she's going. I could drive into a swamp or something."

Isaac clearly doesn't deem that worthy of a response as he doesn't say anything. Stiles hates that people have just started ignoring him now when he says something they deem stupid; sometimes he was asking a genuine question and didn't get an answer.

Every now and again Isaac'll pipe up to tell Stiles to take a turning, and soon they're on a dirt track deep inside a forest. Stiles is driving as slow as he can in case something pops out at him or a swamp appears; he's not really in the mood to play peek-a-boo with some crazy werewolves or faeries or whatever. And Isaac has taken to whispering everything he says now.

"You do know that if they don't hear the sound of my fucking Jeep they won't hear you talking? And what if it's other werewolves? They'll probably already know we're coming. In fact, what the hell is it we're going to epically battle? You never told me."

A sheepish look clouds Isaac's face. "I'm not sure. I never got a proper look at them and I didn't recognise any smells. But they hit me with something so I ran. I thought Scott would get away," he adds with a mumble.

Stiles' insides burn with annoyance that Isaac just upped and left Stiles' best friend when he was in danger, but then he had to remind himself that he would probably do the same (although he wasn't a werewolf, so) and if Isaac hadn't run off Stiles would have had no way to help find them all. Damn, Stiles hated being reasonable.

"Shh!" Isaac says suddenly, and quite unnecessarily (Stiles isn't even saying anything). Stiles' heart jumps in his chest and he swears he can feel it against his rib cage; they must be nearby. He's scared and full of adrenaline. Somehow he manages to park up the Jeep so it's hidden in the trees not too far away from what Isaac's spotted.

Whatever took the wolves clearly didn't share their abilities, because Isaac and Stiles are able to sneak right up to the cabin they come across and peer through the window. The wooden cabin looks old and dilapidated on the outside, and the inside is barren and dark, with no furniture and dusty cobwebs hanging everywhere.

"What the hell is going on? You're sure it's here?" Stiles asks, barely even a whisper because he knows Isaac will hear. He replies with a firm nod. Stiles can't see anything, but sits down with a grumble anyway.

They sit underneath the window for a long time, so long that the wet ground soaks into Stiles' jeans and makes his butt freezing cold. It's hard for him to stop his teeth chattering, but he knows that Isaac will probably smack him upside the head if he doesn't.

"My butt hurts," Stiles whines.

"Shh."

Isaac has been listening intently for some time, his neck stuck at an angle that Stiles is sure cannot be at all comfortable. Stiles is still tired from his 14-hour Marvel movie marathon last night/this morning and so is half asleep when he hears a tiny intake of breath, and looks up to see Isaac's eyes wide. He mouths one word.

"Hunters."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuuuuck. Stiles is not prepared for this; he's prepared for almost every supernatural being he could think of, but humans? Not his forte. He doesn't even know where the pack are. He can only assume Issac knows they're in there otherwise they wouldn't have been sat here so long his ass had gone numb. Is it possible to get frostbite on your ass?

"What is going on?" he says as quietly as he can. "Can I look again?"

Isaac nods, rolling his eyes again at Stiles' impatience. Jeez, it's not his fault he's got ADD. It's super hard to sit still when he's not doing anything. Now Stiles' eyes are more used to the dark he can see properly into the room as he stands up, trying not to be extra clumsy and fall over or something. His insides twist as he makes out Scott, Derek, Erica and Boyd's figures slumped against one wall, all unconscious and tied up with what he recognises as wolfsbane-entwined ropes. Isaac probably already saw them with his better night vision. He could have told him, Stiles thinks with a huff. He drops down again before a hunter can come in and spot him. 

"Fuck," he mutters.

Isaac appears to be listening intently once more.

"They're leaving - oh shit," he curses, sending Stiles into a panic.

"What? What?!" he hisses, twisting around at breakneck speed to check there wasn't a dude with a gun to his head or whatever. "Jeez, dude, don't do that!" he adds, massaging his sore neck.

"They're going and they've set up a bomb. It's going to explode in ten minutes. The others won't be able to move to get out even if the explosion wakes them up because their limbs are all tied with wolfsbane."

Stiles is angry and confused, adrenaline filtering back into his veins. Even with advanced healing, they won't be able to survive an explosion if they can't move. His head is suddenly filled with a vision of Derek's family, trapped inside their own home as it burns to the ground. Imagined screams pierce his ears and he can't suppress a horrified shudder. He can't let Derek go through this. He's got to get them out.

Who are these hunters? It couldn't be the Argents, with whom they have formed a still-shaky alliance, or anyone who works with them. When they get out of here Stiles needs to have a chat with Chris Argent, and get any information he can about any hunters who might have heard of them and wanted to pay a visit.

"Are they gone already?" Stiles asks, itching to run inside and untie the pack. His fingers are shaking, flexing with anticipation. 

"No, they're outside - one of them's doing something, I'm not sure what. Okay, they're driving away. Wait," he adds, grabbing Stiles' arm as he goes to get up, so he's kind of half-standing, half-kneeling in a painfully awkward position. Stiles presumes that Isaac listens to the car's roar disappear before he finally lets Stiles go. Stiles stretches out, his butt painfully numb still.

Armed with a flashlight from his pack, Stiles races into the cabin, finding the room with the pack in almost immediately and setting to work on untying them. Scott is closest, and Stiles tries not to think about the bomb ticking a countdown somewhere within the cabin. As soon as Scott's free of the wolfsbane bindings he begins to rouse.

"Isaac, help him wake up a bit and find out what's going on," Stiles says, gesturing to Scott while moving over to Erica. 

Isaac had been standing somewhat uselessly by the door, unable to assist in removing the ropes. Glad to have something to do, he rushes over to Scott and without hesitation hits him hard in the face. Stiles raises his eyebrows, pausing for just a second in surprise. Not exactly the tactic he would have gone for but hey, he isn't a werewolf, and Scott is definitely awake now.

"You okay dude?" he calls.

Scott is circling his wrists and ankles, relieved to be free of his painful bindings. The skin there is red and raw, but now it's away from the wolfsbane Stiles knows it will heal up within a few minutes.

"Yeah," Scott rasps.

"Who the fuck are these hunters?" Stiles shouts, not caring about needing to be quiet now.

Scott's still groggy but manages to get up and process Stiles' words. 

"I don't know man, but they are nothing to do with the Argents," Scott says groggily as Stiles moves over to Boyd and Isaac adopts the same hitting technique with Erica.

Stiles rolls his eyes. Trust Scott to immediately try and clear Allison from any wrongdoing. Noticing and recognising Stiles' reaction, Scott shakes his head.

"I mean I heard them talking about how much they hate the Argents - they must have heard about the alliance and don't like it - ouch."

Isaac's just given Boyd a particularly unpleasant punch to the face, and Boyd snarls as he wakes up. But soon his expression is schooled back into a calm, unreadable expression as he too stretches his limbs. Only moments later he moves over to Erica and rubs his hands gently up and down her arms. Stiles only has Derek left to untie, but his fingers are sore from the harsh fibres of the ropes he's released the others from. 

"Isaac, how much time do we have left?" he shouts, suddenly remembering what's going on, why they're hurrying. Isaac jumps to attention, remembering too, and takes out his phone.

"Fuck," Isaac mutters. "I don't know - three minutes?"

Stiles is glad that his erratic heartbeat can be explained away by panic as he starts to untie Derek. He has to pretty much hold onto Derek's hand at one point while he's undoing a knot and it makes him nervous. His and Derek's friendship has become an easy banter, but they've still got the lines they don't cross, and unnecessary touching is one of them. Not that he'd mind unnecessary touching, at least he thinks so... He's been confused about Derek for some time now, catching himself staring at dark stubble or straining muscles even when they're in the middle of escaping or saving everyone's asses. It's rather inconvenient.

"I can't get his legs untied," Stiles blurts out, his breaths becoming shallow as he panics. Scott rushes over and puts a hand on his back, the feeling familiar to Stiles because of Scott's presence through all of Stiles' tough times.

"Calm down, Stiles, you've got this," he says firmly. "Breathe properly, come on. You can do it."

Stiles' hands are shaking as he fumbles over the last knot, but Scott's been through enough panic attacks with him that he knows how to help nip them in the bud and Stiles' hands are just about working and then Derek's free. He's still slumped against the wall, his mouth slightly open and face vulnerable. Stiles has seen him like this a few times, but it still overwhelms him each and every time. The lack of anger, hurt, disappointment on his face is something Stiles could look at for endless hours. Isaac shuffles about a bit, looking reluctant to punch his Alpha in the face.

"Just fucking do it," Erica hisses, looking edgy. Her blonde hair is tangled in impossible looking knots, snagged with dirt and leaves, but she doesn't seem to care. By the wolves' lack of questioning, Stiles can only assume that they'd been told what was going to happen to them before they were knocked out. Why do bad guys always waste time telling their captives what they're about to do? It always gives the good guys a much better chance of escaping. Stiles thinks he'd make a pretty good bad guy; it's all about the strategy.

Isaac barely moves even after Erica's eloquent encouragement, so Boyd strides past him and gets straight to it with a firm punch to Derek's jaw. Stiles is not expecting what comes next.

Derek's eyes fly open and immediately he wolfs out. It's like he's so angry he can't even see as he gives an almighty roar and leaps up, lunging forward blindly. Scott only just has time to grab Stiles and move them both out of the way of the furious Alpha. Stiles hasn't seen him like this for a long time. 

He remembers one time that he was kidnapped by an Omega when he was out running in the preserve; he was trying to show Coach Finstock he could make it on first line, but that didn't work out too well. Of course, weak as Omegas are, the pack were able to find him fairly quickly, but not before the Omega was able to carry out stage one its sick little plan. Derek and Scott, closely followed by the others, found Stiles hanging upside down by his ankles. He was so exhausted he was no longer able to bend his head up so that the blood didn't rush to it and he was struggling to breathe, his face was pulsating and turning purple. He was half passed out, unsure of what was going on around him, but he did remember Derek's roar and seeing his dark figure tearing the Omega apart as Scott released him.

"Derek! It's just us!" Erica shouts, trying to calm him down. "The hunters've gone and we need to leave now!"

Derek's muscles twitch and he begins to come back to his senses. He doesn't change back, still furious, and his shoulders are heaving with heavy breaths. He turns around to take in the scene before him, checking that each of his pack is ok. He glares straight at Stiles when he sees him, a look so piercing and intense that Stiles feels a stab of something he can't explain. Derek looks furious to see him, baring his teeth and clenching his fists.

"Let's go," he orders.

Not needing to be told twice, they scramble from the room and out of the front of the cabin, knowing they probably have less than a minute left. Stiles is still unsure of Derek. Why had he been so angry to see him there? Recently Stiles had been finding a lot of stuff out through his research that Derek didn't know, and Derek seemed pretty pissed that Stiles, token human pack member, kept showing up knowing stuff the Alpha didn't; that was something Stiles liked teasing Derek about, but he hadn't thought Derek had minded. Maybe he wasn't too pleased that Stiles had rescued his pack when he couldn't.

Stiles goes to adjust his bag strap on his shoulder, only to realise it isn't there. He's forgotten it inside, too distracted by Derek's stare to remember to pick it back up.

"Oh shit, I forgot my bag!"

He's got everything in that bag, all the shit he could ever need (apart from in a situation with humans, as he'd already figured). He couldn't leave without it; nobody would ever come to him again for help and then maybe Derek wouldn't take him on missions with him. He enjoyed his two-person missions with Derek. It made him feel like they were secret spies or partners in some buddy cop movie, staked out in their car watching for any signs of activity.

"No, Stiles," Derek warns, knowing where this is going. He looks almost concerned, if Stiles didn't know better that he lacks the ability to express emotion. He's also definitely trying to look authoritative, and Stiles would be lying if he didn't say that was kind of a turn-on.

"I'll be one second!" he shouts with an apologetic look to Derek, turning back and sprinting towards the wooden house. He can make it, sure he can - definitely - well, actually, this is probably really stupid... Oh shit, what is he doing?

"Stiles, no!" Scott shouts, as Erica shouts his name too. He hears running behind him and then suddenly all the air leaves his body and he's got a face full of mud, his body flat against the ground. There's the weight of more than one werewolf completely covering him as he hears a moment complete silence, and then the world erupts into chaos.

-

Stiles sits in the corner of the vet clinic for the third day in a row. He's got his arm in a sling, only sprained, from when he fell awkwardly on it when the wolves jumped on him. A deep cut on his forehead that'll probably leave a scar. Guilt burning away inside him like the depths of hell.

Derek, Scott and Erica still lie unconscious on Deaton's medical tables, their healing abilities slowed down by their extensive injuries. Stiles can barely bring himself to look at them, covered in bandages and bloody rags. Their clothes had been torn to shreds, as had they. Why the hell hadn't Stiles realised they'd come after him? If they hadn't, his dad would be burying multiple body parts right now.

Scott's been having little shaking fits, which Deaton says is just to do with part of him healing. But Stiles just thinks back to when they were kids playing in the street or the park and Scott having an asthma attack. Stiles had felt so helpless when all he could do was make sure Scott had his inhaler and moved him away from the other kids so they wouldn't laugh at him. He feels even more helpless every time Scott's body starts to shake and he knows it's his own fault. 

He can't even begin to contemplate how angry Derek will be with him. He knows Derek's not a big fan of him coming along to showdowns at all, because he always gets in the way or they have to protect him, but he knows he comes in useful 80% of the time. He's beginning to think he's getting better at reading Derek's expressions, but given that he always looks emotionally constipated Stiles might just be wishfully thinking. Oh god, Derek's going to tear his throat out.

Boyd and Isaac had managed to escape most of the blast, with a few artificial injuries that healed on the same day. They've been spending time here too, waiting for the others to wake up, but they've barely spoken to Stiles. He can't blame them. This is all his fault. What if somebody had died? He tries to imagine telling Mrs McCall that he'd killed her son with his stupidity and tears are dripping from his cheeks before he even realises he's crying. Wiping them away angrily he tries to suppress the urge to hit himself in the face. He's so furious with himself.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, his mouth filling with salty tears.

His dad wasn't even angry with him once he'd seen the state Stiles had worked himself into, but Stiles can tell he's so disappointed in him. The Sheriff has taught him so many times growing up not to do stupid things when you're in danger and Stiles blatantly disregarded everything he'd ever been told, almost killing his pack in the process.

Stiles is worried that they're taking so long to heal. It doesn't normally take them days, but he tries to convince himself that it's because they were so weakened by the wolfsbane. It's not like he's going to admit to himself that he's actually concerned that Derek Hale might die.

Deaton walks in to check the wolves' bandages and spots Stiles in the corner, looking like he's trying to disappear into the wall. He gives a pitiful smile and moves towards Stiles, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"They're ok, Stiles," Deaton says in a level voice. "And they'll forgive you. It might take some work, but it'll be ok in the end."

Stiles screws up his eyes to stop himself crying more at the kindness he doesn't deserve and nods, showing Deaton he was listening. Deaton is always so calm and collected that it almost makes him nervous, thinking that the man should be worried about something. But he isn't, and today that gives Stiles some relief. 

"Boyd will be here in about 10 minutes," Deaton says, moving away to check on Erica. "I think these three will wake up at some point tonight."

Stiles panics. Boyd is going to be here and he doesn't much fancy sitting with the werewolf while he waits for his girlfriend (that Stiles blew up) to wake. And they're going to wake up... He doesn't want to be here when they do. He can imagine Derek coming to, blinking away confusion as he spots Stiles and leaps for him, claws outstretched towards his face; Scott looking up at Stiles in disappointment and sadness; Erica's face conflicted and let down.

"Tell - tell them I was here, tell them I've been here," he stumbles over his words as he gets up. He wants to be anywhere but here right now.

Deaton looks up in surprise as Stiles hurries towards the door, but he sees the kid's face and knows that he can't face his pack when he's feeling so guilty.

"I will," he nods in farewell.

Stiles can't move any faster towards his Jeep, screeching out of the parking lot before he can pass Boyd anywhere. This has been the worst three days of his entire life, except the last few days he spent by his mother's side. He never thought he'd feel that awful again, but here he was. And this time it actually was his own fault.

When he gets home he goes straight up to his room and buries himself under the covers. His dad doesn't say anything but he makes his own dinner that night, and Stiles finds his unwashed plate by the kitchen sink the next day, still with the leftovers of his dad's salad.

He wakes up at noon the following day, Sunday, and knows that they'll be awake by now. Will they be healed completely? As their wounds get better they heal faster, so they probably were. The thought of any of them being awake while their bodies were in such a horrible state make him feel stupidly guilty again, and he lets out a huge groan. He checks his phone; nothing. Man, they must be so pissed with him...

Stiles spends the day nervously trying to distract himself from the rising panic inside him. Either they weren't going to bother contacting him today and he'd have to face them awkwardly at school tomorrow or they were going to tell him they hated him. He didn't like being left hanging in the dark, not knowing what was going to happen. He deserved a smack round the head, he knew that for certain, but werewolves had weird loyalty rules, and they might think that Stiles had betrayed them by putting them at risk that way.

He remembers waking up at Deaton's that first night and seeing the wolves spread out around him in varying states of injury. It took him a moment to realise what had happened before he buried his face in his hands and tried to pull out his hair in frustration and misery. Scott, Derek and Erica were so bloody at this point that he thought he'd killed them.

"Are they -" he gasped, not sure who he was talking to. But Deaton appeared from somewhere behind him and answered.

"No."

Stiles fell backwards in relief.

"This is your fault," came a voice to his left. He turned, full of dread, to face Isaac's accusing glare.

"I know," he said, biting down on his lip. He could feel it rising up inside him, feel his breaths getting shallower as the weight of the situation fell down on him. He managed to run outside and find his Jeep before he could have a panic attack in the middle of Deaton's clinic.

And he can feel one waiting somewhere inside him now, ready to bubble up and consume him. He'd waited there all day and as much of the night as he could keep awake for, waiting for them to wake up. Now they were ok, and he felt like he was waiting for a jury's verdict. Was he just a dick or was he the worst human being that ever lived?

He's sat at his desk, now weighed down by piles and piles of old books full of folklore and stacks of printouts of research he'd found, when he gets the call.

There's a pack meeting tonight in Derek's apartment.

It takes him some time to manage to work himself up to be able to leave the house. All the way over to the apartment his hands are tapping nervously on the steering wheel. How much are they going to shout at him? How much are they going to tell him that they hate him and it's his fault they all got hurt? He can't imagine anything worse than his friends, his pack, being angry and upset with him.

When he pulls up outside, he sits without moving from his Jeep for five minutes even though he's pretty sure they're all already there and they all will have heard him arrive. It only makes him want to go in even less, because they've all heard him being nervous.

The door is ajar when he finally reaches it. He guesses he's the last one here, judging by the cars outside and the fact that he's late, and his heart is beating ten to the dozen when he enters the room full of werewolves.

Each and every one of them is already looking at him as he enters, heavy stares on their faces. Even Scott isn't welcoming, and Stiles knows how terrible Scott is at holding grudges against him. In fact, Stiles would say that Scott was pretty much incapable of holding grudges against him. Erica and Boyd are cuddled up on a sofa, with Scott and Isaac seated on the other, and Derek is standing at the head of the room, arms crossed, staring at him over the coffee table.

There's a long silence as Stiles stands in front of them, looking back as they all continue to stare. He feels like he's being surveyed by investigators, trying to decide whether it was him who did the crime or not. Stiles knows they're waiting for something and knows he has to give it.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice pleading. "I was really stupid. I'm sorry."

Everyone moves at once; Derek scoffs, Erica looks away, Isaac shakes his head, Scott crosses his arms. Stiles' cheeks begin to burn; he knows he's done really wrong, but he didn't do it on purpose! They could at least appreciate his apology even if they weren't ready to forgive him.

"Yeah, you were really stupid," Boyd agrees in his irritatingly calm voice. The tone is no different than usual but Stiles can still hear the threatening undertones as he pulls Erica closer.

"Dude, I said I was sorry! I didn't ask for you guys to come back with me. Yeah, it was stupid. I get it."

Scott steps forward, arms still crossed over his chest. He looks hurt. "Like we wouldn't come back for you."

"Well I didn't think about that!" Stiles is defending himself. He knows he did wrong and deserves some shit for it but they're not giving him any leeway here.

"I'm getting tired of you not thinking about things before you go through with them," comes Derek's voice, and Stiles faces him nervously. He remembers him lying unconscious on Deaton's table, skin charred and bloody. The explosion probably brought back a lot of horrible memories for Derek, Stiles suddenly realises. Fire isn't exactly his favourite thing in the world.

"Well if I hadn't come you would have all died," Stiles insists, his voice pitiful. "Those ropes were twisted with wolfsbane, Isaac couldn't have undone them."

"I could have asked anyone," Isaac says coolly. "Allison or Lydia would have helped. And they both know how to act in a dangerous situation."

"You nearly killed us, Stiles," Derek growls, his Alpha voice overpowering everyone else's and causing them to fall silent. Stiles feels like he's being attacked from all sides.

"Maybe you should have asked them then," he says quietly, trying to ignore the shiver that passed down his spine at the authority in Derek's voice. "Why didn't you?"

Isaac opens his mouth to answer and then shuts it again. He doesn't know why he went to Stiles. Maybe because he was scared shitless and knew Stiles had a supernatural death kit hidden in his wardrobe. Maybe because Stiles knew what the fuck he was doing. He made one mistake.

"Come on, guys," he says into the silence. "It's me you're talking about here. When am I not doing something stupid? I kind of thought you'd just signed up to me being stupid with the whole Stiles package."

His attempt at light-heartedness doesn't make much of an impact. Scott shifts from foot to foot, and Erica looks away, like they're finding it hard to be so horrible to him.

"Thing is, Stiles," Derek says, his voice hard and unfaltering. "I didn't sign up for you. You just hung around until we got used to you being here."

That stings. He hadn't realised how Derek feels about him. They've been getting on quite well, teaming up on little missions and bantering back and forth without malice. Stiles sometimes lets Derek crash in his room after a big fight, trying not to let on how intriguing he finds the werewolf.

"Well now we can get used to you not being here. You're a liability, Stilinski. You can't protect yourself and we always end up having to help you when we've got more important things to do. You're out of the pack."

Scott looks up at Derek, his face slack in shock. This clearly wasn't something they had discussed. Even Boyd looks disturbed. Stiles' heart stops beating momentarily in his chest.

"What? I - you can't -"

"I can and I am. Get out. You're not welcome here any more."

Stiles is fighting his body in so many ways he's finding it hard to stay upright. He's trying to hold back tears, stop his face from flushing, his voice from stuttering, his heart from beating erratically. He can't believe this is happening.

"Derek..." Erica begins, but he doesn't acknowledge her. He's looking away from Stiles, avoiding his kicked-puppy gaze.

"Get out," he snarls again.

"No," Stiles says firmly, staring Derek down. What's he going to do if Stiles doesn't leave? Physically throw him out?

That's exactly what he does, striding forward and picking Stiles up under his arm, pulling him towards the door despite his protests. He carries him all the way down the stairs and to the front door where he perches him on the front step. Derek's hand still grips Stiles' arm like he doesn't want to let go and Stiles turns to face him; Derek's face is so close to Stiles he could probably poke his tongue out and touch it. Breathing heavily, Derek looks right into his eyes with an apologetic stare for about one second before it gets closed off again, so close that they're breathing in and out of each other's mouths. Then Derek drops him and the moment ends as he slams the door in Stiles' face.

Stiles simply turns dejectedly and somehow manages to drag himself to his Jeep. Determined to get away from where they can hear him, he drives a couple of miles across town before parking up his car and breaking down on the steering wheel. 

He'd expected to be given snide remarks and horrible looks for several weeks. A punch, maybe (and a werewolf punch hurt), not being kicked out of the pack like he was the kanima trying to kill them all.

The look in Derek's eyes when he told Stiles he was a liability haunts Stiles' mind. Stiles made him go through the unnecessary trauma of fire and burns; Derek must despise him. Maybe he was right. Allison and Lydia wouldn't have done anything stupid. Lydia's just as clever as Stiles is, she can do all the research he can. Why would they need him any more?

The panic attack he's been fighting all day breaks forth and he feels like he's drowning, struggling to take breaths as tears stream down his cheeks. They can't kick him out, they need him. Derek needs him, whether he wants to admit it or not. Stiles has noticed over the past year or so that Derek has attached himself to Stiles emotionally; he's not so much of a closed book around him. When he's able to open up to Stiles a bit it makes it easier for him to control his anger and depression. 

Eventually his breathing becomes easier, he feels less nauseous, although the tears don't stop falling down his face. The pack is his whole life. He can't just leave.

He goes home and somehow manages to get some sleep, hoping this is all a dream. When he wakes up he already feels sick, even before he remembers what happened.

When Deaton rescued them from the remains of the cabin he returned Stiles' Jeep to his driveway, so it's ready and waiting for him to drive to school. Stiles can't think of a worse place he could be right now. All the way there his leg involuntarily shakes up and down with nerves as Stiles wonders if it was all some joke and everything will be ok.

Everything will not be ok.

The long walk down the corridor to his locker seems like a march to the death. Scott's locker is just across the hall, and Stiles knows he's probably going to see all of the pack before his lessons have even started. He's not sure how's he's going to last the day. He imagines this is what Scott felt like when he was pining over Allison; Stiles got a serious case of second-hand misery when Scott took him through every single detail of his broken heart.

"Hey Stiles," a voice says as the person passes. Stiles thinks it might have been Danny but he's not really sure; he can't pay attention because he's trying to untie the knots that his insides have twisted themselves into.

"Hi," he mutters, minutes too late, earning himself a confused stare from the girl passing him.

Scott's looking through his locker when Stiles arrives, Allison stood next to him talking about something and the other werewolves hanging around a little way away. Stiles tries to keep his emotions under control, but by the time he reaches his own locker the others have moved away. They hadn't looked up and spotted him so Stiles isn't sure if they're ignoring him or not, but then again they do have super-senses and probably heard and smelled him coming as soon as he walked through the front doors. 

Dread pooling at the bottom of his stomach, he shuts his locker and makes his way to his first class. Boyd, Isaac and Lydia are already sitting in their usual spots, and Stiles makes his way towards his own behind Lydia, trying to seem nonchalant. Were Lydia and Allison aware of what was going on? Stiles couldn't imagine Scott being able to keep himself from Allison, and Allison wouldn't have been able to withhold information from Lydia. Are they going to hate him too?

Somehow the entire pack has managed to avoid him all morning. He's not entirely sure how but it's so well done that he's sure it's deliberate. What, so they can't be friends now? Scott's about as good at not being friends with someone as he is at hating Allison.

Remembering the moment that Derek told him to get out makes Stiles feel sick. How could anyone spit so much hatred at someone they had been so close to? In comparison to Derek's relationships with the rest of the pack, Stiles was basically Derek's best friend.

By lunchtime he's pretty crushed. He hasn't spoken to anyone all day and he's already conflicted when he walks into the cafeteria. Surely Derek must have just been a bit overdramatic? The rest of the pack looked surprised at Derek's decision; maybe they'd let him back in? 

Steeling himself with a deep breath, Stiles walks towards the pack table.

"Hey," he announces himself unnecessarily.

There's an awkward pause like nobody's really sure what they're supposed to do. Half the pack stare resolutely down at their food like it's their one true love. Allison opens her mouth to say something, her eyes kind, but Scott's hand on her arm tells her to shut it again. She looks miserable, and Stiles narrows his gaze in on Scott who can barely even look at him.

"So you're not even allowed to talk to me now?"

No answer.

"Because Derek said so?"

"Derek's my Alpha," Scott grinds out, his face full of tension like he's having a particularly difficult time passing a stool.

Stiles is hurt at the lack of explanation Scott's giving him. Over a decade of best-friendship and now because Derek's telling him to drop Stiles he's just doing it? On the scale of douchebaggery Scott's sliding up pretty high right now.

"Yeah, and I'm your best friend," Stiles says, his voice telling Scott just how much of a douchebag he's being.

Scott winces minutely, his fist now curled up on the table next to his tray. He's still not looking at Stiles.

"We can't be friends with you any more. You're out of the pack, you -"

He can't finish, his sentence falling away into nothing. Allison seems torn between comforting Scott and looking at Stiles with pity, telling him with her eyes that she absolutely hates this.

"You can't be friends with us any more," Boyd repeats in that stupidly calm voice, never giving away any of his emotions as usual. "When we hang out together it's basically a pack meeting, and you're no longer pack, so you're no longer welcome."

The awkward silence descends again as everyone sneaks Stiles glances when they think he isn't looking directly at them. He's staring at the ground, his hands clenched into fists and his jaw so tightly shut he feels like it's going to break. Anger and humiliation are bubbling up inside him. Who the hell do they think they are telling him who he can and can't hang out with any more? Just because he made one mistake?

"Who the fuck does Derek think he is?" Stiles spits, glaring up at them all. They look uncomfortable at his badmouthing their Alpha. "Oh, the lot of you need to grow up, worshipping Derek like he's the next fucking Jesus. He's a shit Alpha and you know it -" he ignores the growls and gasps from the table "- don't try and pretend otherwise. Without me you'd have all died about 10 times in the last two years, and Derek would be twice as useless as he already is. I can't wait to see how long you're all going to last without me."

Isaac stands. "Plenty of other people are capable of researching, Stiles, it's not an art. It's time you stepped back and took a look at how little you actually mean to the pack."

Stiles tries to ignore the icy stab through his heart that follows all the other piercing stabs of pain their words are causing him. Researching isn't even half of what he does and they know it.

"Just go away, Stiles," Scott mutters. "Don't make this any harder than it already is."

He feels like his insides are frozen, unable to breathe. 

"Any harder?"

He scoffs. "You think this can be made any harder, Scott? Is this super difficult for poor little Scott? Try thinking about someone else for a fucking change!"

He's shouting by the time he's finished, face flushed with anger. He upturns Scott's tray as he storms past, not caring that it goes all over Scott and Isaac. He realises that the cafeteria has gone silent and everyone is staring at them, but he doesn't care. Allison tries to call him back but he ignores her. He carries on straight through the corridor, takes everything out of his locker in one sweep into his bag, and goes straight into the parking lot. He's not coming back here.

All the way home he's blinded by rage, still not believing how quickly his life has turned upside down. It's a small mercy he doesn't crash the Jeep, but he manages to make it home. It's about 12:45 and his dad is on lates this week so he's probably still sleeping, but this slips his mind. Fucking Derek. What right does he think he has to screw up Stiles' life? He's an 18 year old kid, not some mean rival Alpha werewolf. He's not out to get them. What the fuck is Derek's problem?

He spots the pile of books in his room that Derek managed to find for him when he needed to look up witches. It sends a surge of anger through his veins and he picks them up before launching them across at the opposite wall. It's not like he was going to need them now and he wasn't going to give them back to Derek. Derek, who's single-handedly ruined his life.

He lets out the loudest yell he's ever heard and rushes forward, clawing at everything he can see and throwing it away from him, pulling things off shelves and the walls, everything blurry though his tears. Stiles is still shouting, words unintelligible, when his dad comes running in ten seconds later, clothes rumpled from sleep. 

The Sheriff grabs Stiles from behind, pinning his arms to his sides and holding them there until he stops struggling and simply cries. Stiles hates letting his dad see him like this; as if he doesn't give his dad enough to worry about. He feels infinitely less guilty now that he doesn't have to lie to his dad about the werewolves, but he still betrayed him for all that time before the nemeton and that will never be okay.

"Stiles! Stiles, what is it?" his dad is shouting in his ear, meaning he's been trying to talk to Stiles for some time and he wasn't listening.

"I want to move schools," Stiles chokes out.

"You - what?"

"Please," he begs. For once he's not lying to guilt trip his dad into doing something he wants.

"Stiles, the nearest high school is fifteen miles away. Why would you suddenly want to tr-"

"They kicked me out, Dad!" he yells.

There's a silence as Stiles' words sink in, and then John pulls him close and just hugs him. If there's anything Stiles needs when his world is crashing around him then it's one of his dad's hugs.

"I'll make some phone calls," is all his dad says a few minutes later, and leaves with one more pat on the back.

Stiles lies back on his bed, surrounded by the complete mess that is now his room. He can't remember getting that angry since after his mom died. He'd fly into rages about why it had to be her, why she was gone, and was it his fault. His dad and Scott had helped him through his angry stage, and subsequently his miserable stage. But Scott wasn't going to help this time.

Stiles tries to look at himself from someone else's point of view. Sure, he was pretty annoying, and jeez, he never stopped talking. But the pack knew about his ADD, and he'd thought that they found it kind of endearing. I mean, there was that time that Boyd told him with a friendly smile that he couldn't imagine Stiles as a quiet person, and he took that as a compliment.

Stiles liked every single person in that pack, and he was entirely sure he'd saved all their asses at least once. Derek owed him at least 10 life debts, and Stiles had been thinking of ways that Derek could repay him...

Shuddering with suppressed hatred now, Stiles wondered if Derek had been able to smell Stiles' feelings towards him. It wasn't like he was in love with Derek or anything. He just definitely appreciated his rugged good looks. If you were to look up "tall, dark and handsome" in the dictionary the definition would be 'Derek Hale'.

Maybe that's why he kicked him out. He was scared that Stiles was getting too attached to him because he was hanging around so much. He literally crashed in Stiles' room less than two weeks ago. It kinda made them happy to wind each other up as much as possible. Stiles liked making sourwolf grumpy and Derek liked to push Stiles into things. In a friendly, Alpha kind of way of course.

Guess not anymore, Stiles thinks. Guess he got too close for comfort.

He doesn't go to school the next day, and his dad tells him he can't start at Blue Pine High School in the next town over until Wednesday, so he slowly cleans up his destroyed room, taking everything he's collected over the last couple of years for the pack and stuffing them at the back of his wardrobe. This reminds him that he lost his bag in the explosion, and he doesn't even have mountain ash any more. Note for future reference: don't keep your entire stock of something in the same place.

Stiles makes his way towards Deaton's clinic, pleased he doesn't bump into anyone on the way (well, Derek, as the others are all at school) and hopes that Deaton is alone save genuine customers. Maybe something wants to go Stiles' way for once, because he is.

Deaton is attending to a handsome dalmatian when Stiles enters, the dog looking thoroughly miserable and sorry for itself. Stiles sends it a sympathetic look. I know how you feel, buddy.

Looking up, Deaton looks conflicted when he sees who's waiting for him.

"It's okay," Stiles mutters irritably; it would be nice if somebody was on his side for once. "I'm not going to make you tell me anything or tell them anything."

"Stiles, I want you to know I don't agree with this, but there's nothing I can do."

The man looks genuine, and Stiles believes him. He gives him a grateful nod, relieved somebody at least sees reason.

"Thanks," he says awkwardly. "But I'm honestly not here for that. I lost my bag in the explosion, and I need to stock up on some basics. Just mountain ash, powdered wolfsbane. I'll pay you as much as you want. I know it's without notice."

Deaton sighs and puts down the instrument he's holding, pulling off his latex gloves.

"Trying to keep someone at bay?" he asks solemnly, not waiting for an answer. "I thought you'd want some replacements, so I ordered them the same night that you lost them."

Stiles is grateful that he doesn't say 'the same night you blew up half your pack'.

"Seriously? Dude, that's amazing."

Deaton gives him a smile. "It's only a few things, nowhere near the collection you managed to build up. But it should do for what you want."

"That's great, man," Stiles says gratefully, taking the packets that Deaton gives him and putting them into another backpack he brought with him. "It's not like I'll be needing all of the other stuff any more."

There's silence as Deaton gives him a sympathetic look, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Deaton's very much an older brother or uncle figure, and it gives Stiles the smallest bit of comfort.

"Take care, Stiles," Deaton tells him. "You're welcome here any time."

-

The wolfsbane and mountain ash are dumped in his bedside drawer for now. Stiles is more worried about his first day at Blue Pine High School. Now the morning's here, he's not entirely sure that this was the best idea. Everyone at his last school was used to him being a completely uncoordinated idiot, and they kinda just forgot about it. It was going to be painfully obvious here that he's a super uncool dork with little athletic ability. Maybe he could fit in with the misfits.

His dad manages to be there when he leaves (super early so he can get there on time - his eyes feel like they're being weighed down with glass paperweights). Stiles is sure he's trying to be reassuring but all he's doing is fussing around him a bit, making them both feel pretty awkward.

"Just... gonna go, now..." Stiles says, running his hand through his hair, which has grown out from his buzz cut. "See ya later."

"Good luck, Stiles," the Sheriff calls after him when he leaves.

Blue Pine is both different and exactly the same as Beacon Hills High School. Visually, its facade is different. It's a smaller school, and much more quaint than Beacon Hills. As its name might suggest, it's surrounded by a pine forest and they've tried to make the buildings look in keeping with the landscape. Less dull grey concrete.

The mix of people looks the same, but then Stiles is only fifteen miles away. He gets a lot of stares in the parking lot, and he guesses they don't get a lot of new kids. Damn, he feels like he's in some kind of shitty low-budget high school movie. Maybe he's going to walk into his first class and spot the absolutely love of his life at first sight. Probably not. He'll get stared at and laughed at when he introduces himself -

Oh shit. He hopes his dad hasn't put down his full name on the school records. If he has to hear a teacher trying to pronounce his real name one more time... 

When he gets to the school office he's relieved to find that John just put down Stiles Stilinski. Sure, it sounds pretty stupid, but it's much better than his real name. The old lady behind the desk looks a little surprised when she reads his name over her glasses (which are on a chain. Stiles hopes this place isn't some creepy place that lives in the past and will recruit him into a satanic '80s cult). The old woman's face is wrinkled and kind, and when Stiles leans forward to take his schedule from her he can smell musk. It's strangely comforting, reminding him of his grandma or something.

"Your first lesson's Chemistry, dear," she says in her doddering, slow voice. "A lovely young lady should be along any time soon to show you to your class."

"Thanks," he says, taking his stuff and standing awkwardly. He puts the papers into his bag to give him something to do, and as he's closing it back up, the girl walks in.

She's pretty, he appreciates that. Long, dark hair framing an exotic face, perfectly made up. She's walking like she's on a mission, carrying her handbag over her arm and demanding Stiles' attention with her presence.

She spots him immediately, as he is pretty much just stood in the middle of the room, and walks over to him with a pearly white grin.

"Hello, you must be Stiles," she addresses him. Her voice is sweet, not bored or malicious. He sees her as perhaps this school's nicer Lydia Martin, much less rude and ruthless.

"That's me," he replies with a smile, and her eyes brighten.

"I'm Leila," announces the girl, reaching out to shake his hand. She's got a firm shake, and yet her dainty hands are soft on his skin. "We have Chem together. I'll show you your locker and everything, let's go."

And with that he's already following her from the room and through the corridors. He's attracting a lot of stares (he wish he got this much attention at Beacon Hills) and some of them, he notes with an internal preen, are rather appreciative. As Leila notices a girl giving Stiles the once over, she places her hand on his arm.

"So, Stiles," she begins in a friendly tone. "Where are you from?"

"I, uh, transferred from Beacon Hills," he admits, feeling a little uncomfortable with her touching. Yeah, she's really beautiful, but for some reason he's just not attracted to her. He tries to ignore the voice in his head that is pointing out that he's already attracted to someone else, because the thought of the pack makes him either want to cry or smash things.

"Oh, wow," she says, giggling. "That's not far at all, is it? Strange to transfer so close by. Oh look, here we are. Mr Darwin's room, for Chem."

She pulls him inside without warning. Jeez, do all guys get manhandled like this around here? If Lydia had acted like this when he'd had the crush to end all crushes on her then he probably would've messed his pants.

Everyone's already seated when they come in, and they eyeball him like he's a piece of meat. He thought getting kicked out of the pack would mean people wouldn't look at him like that any more; plenty of rival werewolves have looked at him like they wanted to eat him up. Some of the girls look interested in the new kid, who's not so bad looking (now he's grown his hair out and bulked up a bit). Stiles knows he's a far cry from Derek's muscled figure, but he's pretty well toned now.

"Everyone, this is Stiles Stilinski and he's transferring here from Beacon Hills. I hope you'll all make him welcome."

Mr Darwin is a slightly overweight man in his mid-thirties, already with a balding head and sweat patches under his arms. Still, Stiles appreciates him not dragging out the introduction, although he definitely heard a few whispers and giggles at his name.

As Stiles moves to take his seat, a tall, stocky boy in the third row is sending him daggers. He's only been here five minutes and already he's found the new Jackson. Great.

The girl next to him tries to engage him in conversation a few times, but he's just trying to get his work done. He doesn't want to let his dad down with his grades, especially as he's asked to move schools. Wouldn't that be a shitty way to pay him back?

He's been successful in avoiding drawing too much attention to himself all the way through til his second-to-last class. He'd tried to sit alone at lunch, but Leila and three of her girlfriends had sat at his empty table and asked him loads of questions about Beacon Hills and what it was like compared to Blue Pine.

All Stiles wanted to do was sit and wallow in his own misery. This all felt so alien to him, when just last week he was sitting in Beacon Hills cafeteria laughing with his pack, probably winding up Boyd or Lydia by telling terrible jokes. Probably trying to avoid Lydia's knowing side-eye whenever someone mentioned Derek.

The corridors are a little bit narrower at Blue Pine, but that's no excuse for what happens to Stiles. He's trying to find his next class when someone shoves past him with extreme force, pushing him backwards into the lockers. The dial on the locker digs painfully into his back as the boy from his Chemistry class crowds into his face. He's handsome, very tall now he's stood up, and also glaring threateningly into Stiles' face. There are two guys behind him, all also imposing presences, and one girl, who is looking at her nails in a bored manner. None of them look young enough to be in high school. In fact, they all look at least twenty.

"You, new kid," he hisses. "Stay away from Leila or your first day here will also be your last. Got it?"

It's all Stiles can do but nod. Normally he wouldn't put up with any kind of bullshit - I mean, he had to put with Jackson for god knows how long and enjoyed winding him up in response - but he hadn't been expecting that at all. By the time he's back in his Jeep on the way home he's massaging his side, which is already starting to bruise. How the hell is that dude so strong?

As first days go, Stiles is unsure. It wasn't the best and it wasn't the worst. He just feels so... so lonely. There's no-one to complain about the teachers or the workload to, no Scott to help with his Trig homework. He's going home to relax, but there's nobody to relax with. His dad's not back when he gets home, and he finds himself stood in the kitchen for half an hour simply staring into space. When he comes to, he can't find the energy to do anything at all.

Two days later, a couple of hours after Stiles comes home from school, Scott leaps in through his bedroom window.

Stiles is lying face down on his bed doing absolutely nothing when he hears Scott's familiar grunt. Inside he's secretly exploding with hope he knows is completely futile. Some mental part of him wants Scott to jump on him and tell him it was all a big joke and he can come over and play Mario Kart now.

Stiles doesn't move at all, still face down. He can hear Scott awkwardly kicking his feet on the carpet. Does he actually have anything important to say or is he just going to stand there?

"Where have you been? You haven't been coming to school and I saw your dad but he wouldn't say anything to me. Did you tell him?"

Stiles frowns, irritated. "Of course I told him, Scott. He's my dad. He's the only person in the world I've got left to trust."

There's a pained silence and Stiles can imagine Scott standing there wide eyed, his mouth dropped open with a hurt expression. What does he expect? 

"So - so are you coming in tomorrow?" Scott stammers dumbly, and Stiles wants to flail his limbs around and kick something in frustration.

"No, Scott, I'm not fucking coming in tomorrow. I don't belong here any more," he shouts, voice muffled slightly by the bed.

"I don't understand. Have - have you moved schools or something? Did you drop out? What did your dad say?"

Stiles says nothing in response. Like Scott actually has the right to ask questions any more. Like he has the right to talk about Stiles' relationship with his dad as if they're friends. The silence is icy and Scott gets the hint.

"Stiles, I don't want to do this," he says, voice pleading. "But I have to. The pack is this bond I can't ignore. It's something you can't understand unless you're a werewolf. I just feel like I should do everything Derek suggests, especially this, because it makes you safer."

"I can't understand the bond?" Stiles mumbles angrily, his mouth full of pillow. "I can understand our bond, Scott, although I can't understand what you've done to it."

"Look, I'm not even supposed to be here," Scott begins, as if somehow that's going to impress Stiles and all will be forgiven. "If Derek finds out -"

"He'll give you a slap on the wrist? Scratch you a little bit? Kick you out of the pack? Oh no, wait, that's just for me."

"Stiles," Scott whines.

"Just leave me alone, Scott," Stiles says, finding it harder to speak as a lump begins to form in his throat. "If you're going to obliterate my life into little pieces then don't wait around to watch me try and pick them up."

He's crying and he doesn't care. Snot dribbles down onto his pillow, leaving another sticky wet patch next to the one his tears make. Scott doesn't move for a few minutes and Stiles swears he hears a sniff before his window is slid shut and Scott is gone.

Why did Scott think coming to see him would make things any better? All he's doing is taking the friendship he's stolen away from Stiles and dangling it in front of his face where he can't reach it. Infuriated, Stiles pushes himself up and fumbles with his bedside drawer, grabbing his mountain ash and the wolfsbane powder and oil Deaton gave him. He takes a cloth, soaking it in the oil and rubbing it all over his window sill. He does the same throughout the whole house, frantically scrubbing away like a madman.

The front door handle gets the same treatment and once he's done that he pulls out his mountain ash and begins to circle the house. He relishes in the feeling of the powder falling through his fingers like sand, never before wanting the circle to be complete so badly. It's no surprise to him that he makes the powder last because he believes he's never wanted it to work so much in his life. It glows upon completion and Stiles hides the obvious part by the front door with the door mat, grinning madly.

"Try getting in now!" he yells to the empty street, hoping there's a werewolf there somewhere to hear his cry. Silence echoes back at him, broken only the the wail of fighting cats in the yard next door. His frenzy over, he's breathing heavily, feeling a bit of an idiot. Nobody's here, and he gets a strange look from a man walking his dog across the road. Looking away in embarrassment, he goes back inside and closes the door, both happy and distraught that none of his friends will be coming over to see him any time soon.

Some "friends".

-

He doesn't really fit in at Blue Pine but people accept his presence, even if they don't care much about it. It's the best he could have hoped for, really: nobody pays attention when he does something embarrassingly stupid and he doesn't have to waste time pretending to be happy to friends, because he doesn't have any.

Stiles supposes that's a bit of a lie. Most of the time he sits by himself in the school cafeteria, which looks achingly similar to Beacon Hills', but one week after his first day Leila forfeits her usual table and plonks her tray down opposite him with a grin.

"Hey you," she chirps. "You do know I'm supposed to be looking after you, right? I'm your 'buddy'. Can't buddy you when you're sitting on your own with that miserable face on."

She's straightforward but he likes it. She's not rude, just confident, a trait which he sometimes wishes he held himself.

"Sorry," he says, attempting to smile and failing miserably. Leila notices, her face falling.

"Don't be silly," she replies kindly, stealing one of his fries like they've been best friends forever. "I'm sorry if you don't like it here. Or you miss your friends. I'm guessing that's it."

Nodding, Stiles pokes at his food. He doesn't really feel hungry, which is probably something to do with the fact that he's been suffering from constant nausea for two weeks. Yeah, he misses his friends. Leila hit the nail on the head.

"Well maybe I can help cheer you up," she says cheerily.

"I'm not really supposed to be anywhere near you," Stiles laughs bitterly, glancing around the cafeteria conspicuously. 

Leila's face crinkles in confusion. "What?"

She follows his eyes with her own brown ones and spots who Stiles' land on, her mouth setting into a hard line in anger. Mitchell and his friends are sitting at their usual table, an empty space next to Mitchell where Leila usually resides. Mitchell is red in the face, breathing heavily as he stares Stiles down.

"Oh for goodness' sake," she hisses. "I can be friends with who I want. Mitchell seems to think every guy that I want to be friends with wants to bone me. He needs to calm down,"she stresses, as if Mitchell can actually hear her from all the way over there. She's obviously a bit fed up with being owned and Stiles pities her.

"He's just worried he'll lose you," he says, trying to be comforting, but she gives him a look that plainly tells him to cut the bullshit.

"He will if he's not careful," she replies irritably.

There's an ear-splittingly loud scraping sound as someone gets up from their seat and everyone in the cafeteria turns to look. Mitchell is standing angrily, his friends scrambling to get up too like a herd of sheep, staring menacingly over at Leila and Stiles. Stiles gulps, not taking his eyes away from Mitchell until he's definitely through the doors and no longer in the room.

"Just ignore him," Leila advises, looking down again once everyone's started chatting again. 

"Yeah," is all Stiles can say, because that's easier said than done when Mitchell likes to appear out of nowhere to shove him into lockers. 

"Come on," she says, picking up his almost untouched tray. "Let's go to class."

It becomes a bit of a ritual, Leila eating with Stiles two or three times a week. It's clear Mitchell doesn't like it and people have begun to avoid talking to Stiles because they know Mitchell's got it in for him. Before, people had been introducing themselves and asking him a few questions every now and again when he sat down next to them at the start of class, but now they just smile awkwardly and duck their heads.

Leila doesn't care, though. She says she was given the role of looking after Stiles while he settles in, and he's not settled in yet. Stiles is just glad he has one friend, even if he barely knows her.

His dad's more than worried about him. Slowly, Stiles stops bothering to come down for meals which means that the Sheriff has to make them himself. Stiles has no idea whether his dad's eating healthily or not but he can't quite muster up the energy to go and check, instead watching an endless amount of sad movies every night so he can justify his crying if his dad were to come in. He knows deep down it wouldn't fool his dad for one second, but it makes him feel better.

It's not like Stiles doesn't eat. He shuffles down the stairs at two in the morning when he can't sleep and raids the cupboards, munching on chips and biscuits instead of anything proper. He'll occasionally force down a slice or two of toast in the mornings and whatever Leila forces him to eat at school.

There's just this big empty hole inside him, a place that needs filling. It's like a part of him is missing, like someone's cut him open and literally taken something out of him and won't give it back. He wants to cry out in frustration and groan in misery all the time but he can't. He doesn't want to worry his dad again but he can't stop himself from closing in on himself.

Mitchell's group aren't taking kindly to Stiles' monopolising of Leila at lunch times. One day during PE Stiles is running cross country when a not-too-gentle hand claps over his eyes and someone picks up his feet.

"Put me down!" he shouts through gritted teeth, trying to wriggle free. They're not even struggling to carry him and his attempts at getting free are completely useless; these guys are really strong.

"I told you to stay away from her, Stilinski," Mitchell barks.

"I might have known it would be you," Stiles spits bitterly, not bothering to struggle any more. 

"If you did as you were told you wouldn't be in this mess."

He's shoved roughly into something hard, his back scraping painfully along what feels like tree bark. He's still upright, so at least that's a bonus. He's not a great fan of being dangled upside down (especially by Omegas).

Rope. There's rope threading around him, trapping his torso and his arms to the tree, pulled so tight he can hardly breathe. The hand is taken away from his face and he sees he's at least four feet off the ground. Having the ground suddenly move four feet away makes his stomach drop like he's on a rollercoaster.

"Wow, this is a good one," he quips. "Really original. Don't know how you came up with it."

They just laugh at him, beginning to walk away. The girl looks back momentarily with a wicked grin, flicking her curly hair over her shoulder and blowing him a kiss. Fucking bitch.

Stiles can't really deny that he's in a bit of a dilemma. From what he can tell they took him pretty far off the trail and the only landmarks he can see are pine trees. Lots and lots of frickin' pine trees. Brilliant.

After an hour Stiles is really fucking uncomfortable. The ropes are so tight they feel like they're cutting off the blood supply to the lower half of Stiles' body, and there are things down there he really doesn't want falling off. He tries to wriggle out of them on several unsuccessful occasions and then gives up, dangling from the tree like the complete loser that he is. 

Another hour later and the mournful looking sky above him opens, droplets of rain splashing onto his face and cooling him down. For several minutes he relishes the cool relief, but after fifteen minutes he begins to shiver, his clothes completely soaked through. He can't even wipe the water out of his face as it pours down into his eyes and his mouth.

"For fuck's sake," he yells in frustration. He's freezing and he knows school is over because this was his last class. Hopefully someone will see his stuff in the locker room or his car in the lot, or maybe someone will come running nearby. Somebody has to find him.

He's just about at the end of his tether when he hears someone shouting his name. The rain has dulled to a soft drizzle, spraying his face like mist from a hose. The shouts echo again, and he calls back to guide them closer.

Appearing in front of him like saviours from heaven, Coach Weekes and Leila scramble through the undergrowth to try and release him. Stiles feels like a complete idiot. He supposes it could be worse; they could have tied him up where everyone in the school could see him.

"How the hell did they get him all the way up there?" he hears Coach mutters as he helps free Stiles. That's a pretty good point. He's quite high off the ground for any normal person to hold him up and tie him to a tree without stepladders.

He drops down suddenly when the knot is broken, catching his limbs on the ropes and falling flat on the ground. Legs trembling and body shivering from cold, Stiles manages to stand up and Leila has his hoody in her hands ready to wrap around him. Feeling the soft warmth envelop him, he couldn't be more grateful and smiles a thanks.

"You're going to have to accompany me back to the school, Stiles," Coach Weekes says, his voice firm. "We had to call in your father. This is a serious incident."

"Aww fuck," Stiles hisses under his breath. Coach begins to stride off like he heard nothing and Leila and Stiles trail along behind him.

"I heard Mitchell and the others talking about what they did," Leila whispers to him, taking off her scarf and wrapping it around him as well. Stiles doesn't care that it's purple with love hearts on it because he's bloody freezing. "I made them tell me where you were. Me and Coach have been looking for you for ages."

"This will serve to mortifyingly embarrass me for years to come," Stiles mumbles, pulling his hoody closer to him.

"Hey," Leila frowns, rubbing Stiles' back comfortingly. "This isn't your fault. I'm really sorry they're giving you all this trouble. I'm trying to stop them but they won't listen to me."

"It's okay," Stiles sighs as they break through the tree line. He can see the cruiser parked next to the Jeep in the parking lot and his heart sinks. His dad is probably worried sick that he's lying dead somewhere.

They make it into Coach's office where his dad assaults him with a towel and hugs him tightly. Stiles sighs, both in relief and guilt that he's worrying the Sheriff again.

"I'm fine, Dad," Stiles frowns, pulling away. "I just want to go home."

"Who did this?" the Sheriff demands and Coach stands behind him, waiting too for answers.

"Nobody, I - it doesn't matter, it was just a joke," he says, rubbing his nose. He thinks this is one of his lying traits. You know, when you can always tell someone is lying because one of their eyebrows goes up or they scratch their head or something.

"Stilinski, if you expect me to believe this was a joke then you're taking me for a fool," the Coach says dryly. "I can probably guess who it was but I can't do anything about it unless you tell me."

Leila's looking at him almost as if she wants him to turn them in, but he knows that won't do him or her any good at all, so he shakes his head and tries to ignore his dad's disappointed stare.

"It was just a joke," he repeats.

"Fine," Coach snaps. "But this incident is going on written record."

Stiles unwraps Leila's woollen scarf from around his neck and hands it back to her. She gives him a sorry smile and leaves, leaving Stiles to walk alone with his dad to collect his things from the locker room.

"Stiles, I don't want you protecting anyone if you're getting bullied," the Sheriff begins, but Stiles cuts him off.

"Please, don't, Dad," he begs. "It's not going to happen again. Just - I just want to go home. We can watch The Avengers or something. Gotta get me some Hawkeye action."

John doesn't really look like he wants to drop it but Stiles' suggestion of spending time together sways him, as Stiles spends all of his time in his room now.

"As long as I don't have to sit through your running commentary this time," he smiles, clapping Stiles on the back as he leads them towards their cars.

"Deal."

-

Stiles has successfully avoided seeing any of the pack for over a month now. It's not that he doesn't miss them. He misses them so much that his chest aches every single time he sees or remembers something to do with them. It's just the thought of seeing them and not being able to have them back is heartbreaking.

So when Stiles is lying in bed on a Sunday afternoon, having not washed since Friday morning, wearing tattered grey sweatpants and a tshirt that has last night's midnight snack (ketchup sandwich) spilled all down it, and the doorbell rings, he gets up to answer it without any qualms. His dad is out getting some groceries and probably sneaking in a dinner at McDonald's so he's alone in the house.

He catches a look at himself in the hallway mirror as he walks towards the door. He's hardly been sleeping and his eyes are sunken and circled with grey skin. He needs a haircut and he probably stinks.

"Hi, Stiles," Allison offers when he pulls open the door. 

Shocked, Stiles just stands there staring at her for a minute. She's doing the same but she's surveying the state of his clothing and himself with concern.

"Look, can I come in? It's cold out here," she smiles. Stiles finds it hard to say no to her, even though he once thought she was going to steal Scott away from him forever. Turned out he didn't need Allison for that.

"Sure," he says, and opens the door wider.

They walk into the front room awkwardly and Allison sits down, her cheeks pink. She's looking down at her hands. Stiles isn't sure whether to sit or stand, so he stays standing.

"I really miss you, Stiles," she whispers, her bottom lip wobbling. "This is so wrong. I don't even want to be a part of it."

Stiles wants to be angry at her but she's visibly distraught. He remembers her trying to call him back in the cafeteria and the look on her face that was telling him she didn't agree. He's annoyed she's not acting on his side but he supposes that she would have to pick Scott over him, and at least he knows she thinks he's being treated awfully.

"I know," he says eventually, falling into the couch cushions with a sigh. "I know. I miss you too."

"I wish we could just hang out, be friends like we used to, even if the others are still being weird. But Scott -"

Ashamed, she breaks off and looks up at him apologetically.

"It's okay," he smiles sadly. "I understand. Thank you for coming to see me."

"I wanted to before," she insists. "Scott keeps saying I don't understand. I brought you something, anyway. It's not much, and it probably won't make you feel much better but still..."

Her delicate hands delve into the leather handbag that sits on the couch next to her. She pulls out a small wooden frame and passes it over to him. Inside is a photograph of Allison and Stiles at the costume party Lydia held last year: Stiles is Captain America and Allison is Katniss, complete with (unloaded) crossbow. They're pulling superhero poses and trying not to grin. The photo reminds Stiles of better times and makes him so happy he doesn't know what to say.

"I love it," he laughs. "Thanks. I'd come and hug you but then they'd know for definite you were here."

Her answering grin fades a little. "They'll smell it anyway. They've all been here before. I'm sorry it has to be like this."

"Me too."

Allison can't stay long but Stiles hugs her anyway before she goes. The familiarity is enough to make Stiles grin for ten minutes straight.

"Stiles, you really need to sort yourself out," Allison offers quietly. "I think I have your dinner all over my shirt now."

Stiles looks down at his stained clothes and quirks a smile in response to Allison's.

"Will do."

"Good," she says. "I'll see you... sometime."

Watching Allison walk away down the sidewalk is like Stiles' heart breaking all over again. The door slams and he storms upstairs. Nobody should have the right to take his friends away from him. He's gone from being one of the luckiest guys he knows (in terms of friends, anyway - his love life is utterly pathetic) to that kid that gets kidnapped in cross country and tied to a fucking tree. Jesus, he could just imagine if Blue Pine was closer to Beacon Hills and one of the pack had stumbled upon him. The utter humiliation would be torture.

The pretty wooden frame containing the picture of Stiles and Allison is set pride of place on his desk. Stiles got rid of any other pictures some time ago so having something to look at is a relief.

Dreaming has become a pretty usual thing for Stiles now. Every night he'll dream of a memory, a time when he was with the pack. Sometimes it's them all hanging around in Derek's apartment watching TV, sometimes it's Stiles, Allison and Lydia watching the wolves training, sometimes it's a fight between the pack and another, or some other supernatural creature.

That night Stiles dreams of Derek and only Derek. It's the time that he and Stiles were on a scouting mission for the first witch they killed a while back, trying to figure out her habits and favourite places.

"Remind me again why you didn't just drag another wolf out here with you?" asks Stiles.

They're sat in the Camaro at a quarter past midnight parked up on the edge of a muddy track, which apparently smells like the witch crosses it several times a day. Apparently. According to Derek.

"Because if she sees us, a wolf and a human is less threatening than two wolves," Derek repeats slowly, like Stiles is a total idiot.

"Yeah, because she's not gonna turn us both into frogs or something anyway," Stiles scoffs, lifting his feet up and placing them on the dashboard in front of him.

Derek's head turns to look at Stiles, a mutinous look on his face. He glances at Stiles' feet and back again, making Stiles gulp.

"Take your shoes off my dashboard. Now," Derek growls, leaning closer and baring his teeth like an animal.

"Dude, they're not really doing any har-" Derek's fist moves towards Stiles at an alarming speed. "- OKAY! Okay! Taking them down! Jeez."

Stiles tries not to be obvious that Derek kinda scares him and turns him on at the same time. The mildly amusing threats make Stiles excited, bringing something fun to the time they spend together (mostly hanging around waiting for people and things to happen, which is totally boring).

"Car needs cleaning anyway," Stiles mutters under his breath, earning him a cuff around the head from Derek, who's not even looking his way. "Ow! What is your problem, dude?"

"People called Stiles who cannot physically shut up," Derek says off-handedly, peering out through the windshield into the darkness ahead, constantly keeping an eye out.

"Pfft," Stiles scoffs, a smirk on his face. "Don't be ridiculous. You know you love my hilariously witty repartee, otherwise you wouldn't bother bringing me along all the time."

Derek raises an eyebrow, resting his arm across the steering wheel. "I don't bring you along all the time."

Stiles blinks. So Derek goes on these little stake-outs with the others as well? He tries not to be disappointed. Why should he be? Why would he think that he's any more special than any of the others? Sure, the others don't have the banter he does with Derek but they're actually wolves, so they're probably a lot closer to him than Stiles is. Derek probably thinks he's a complete idiot.

"Sometimes," Derek says, leaning closer and whispering theatrically like he's telling Stiles a big secret. "I go by myself."

Stiles is torn between smacking himself in the face and grinning widely. Derek's fucking winding him up. This is what Stiles means when he thinks over the difference in his relationship with Derek compared to the others; Derek isn't open like this around them.

"Since when did you get a sense of humour transplant?" Stiles mutters, hiding his grin by looking out of the passenger window.

"I don't know," Derek replies thoughtfully. "You've probably rubbed off on me."

The inner monologue of Stiles' brain splutters and he's so glad his mouth doesn't follow his train of thought about Derek and rubbing. Stop it, Stiles. Now is not the time.

"As if," is all he can say. 

Derek smirks knowingly and they fall back into silence. Stiles subconsciously begins tapping his fingers against his knee, head bobbing along to an imaginary tune as he scans the land outside the windows.

"Sooooo how long do you think we're gonna have to be here? Cause I do have school tomorrow y'know. And I know it's hard to believe but Stiles does need his beauty sleep -"

Derek's hand shoots out and circles Stiles' wrist tightly, pulling his arm up and away from where his fingers were tapping their tune against his leg.

"Will you stop being so annoying?" he asks, exasperated.

"Nope," Stiles says, trying not to expose his slight breathlessness. Derek's sudden touch had surprised him, making him jump.

Derek half-laughs, half-sighs and drops Stiles' arm.

"I don't know why I expected any other answer," he says, one side of his mouth pulling into a smirk as he looks forward again.

"Nor do I," Stiles reasons, grinning. "You did choose to bring me here."

"That I did," Derek agrees, turning and catching Stiles' eye with a smirk.

Stiles wakes up with a momentary feeling of fuzzy happiness in his chest, remembering how happy he'd been when Derek had turned that grin on him, before he remembers that Derek doesn't turn that grin on him anymore because Derek doesn't want to acknowledge his existence anymore. The fuzzy feeling dulls to a painful ache and he rolls over to bury his face in the coldness of the pillow.

He's quietly melancholy the next day at school and Leila thinks it's because of what happened the day before. Of course being tied to a tree would probably make him quite upset but he knows if he hadn't had the dream he would be more angrily embarrassed than plain miserable. 

For the rest of the week he's in this funk, not even reacting to most things. Even Mitchell and his friends leave Stiles alone for the week after the incident, although he doesn't think it's because of what happened. They seem to be able to sense his weird mood and perhaps pity him. Stiles hates pity, but this time around he's grateful. His dad is confused. He knows Stiles well enough to know getting tied to a tree isn't going to make him sad, only angry, so he can't understand what's gotten into him.

It begins to fade a little, though. The aftermath of the dream slowly fades away as he has others, involving the whole pack again, and he spends most of his time at school trying to be cheered up by Leila. She's pretty good, he supposes, because she makes him laugh quite a lot; he doesn't know how he'd survive school without her. When he first met her he compared her to Lydia Martin (as a much nicer version, of course) but now he'd say she's more Allison Argent. Stiles remembers the photograph sitting on his desk and smiles, promising to himself to make more of an effort at school for Leila.

-

The extra effort he makes with Leila brightens up her face like a child with a new toy. She loves seeing her friend happier (at least on the outside). She sits with him every lunch time now, not ever bothering to sit at Mitchell's table, something he's not been happy about for some time. It's been two weeks since Stiles was tied to the tree and he's getting wary. They must be planning something else; it's not like they're suddenly just going to leave him alone, especially when he hasn't stopped talking to Leila. 

Does Mitchell actually think that Stiles is going to try and steal Leila from him? She's so pretty he'd never make it out of the friendzone even if he tried. And besides, she's not muscley, bearded or werewolfy enough for him. No, of course he didn't just describe Derek.

Stiles is having a bit of an existential crisis in his head. It's pretty clear he's got a big thing going on for Derek Hale. So... Is he gay? He was definitely in love with Lydia Martin for god knows how long and he knows if he didn't like Derek he'd probably be the same with Leila. He'll just settle on bisexual for now. Not that it really matters in the grand scheme of things. He likes who he likes.

Waiting for an attack by Mitchell's group is proving to be quite exhausting. He knows they're going to do something else. It would be stupid of him to think otherwise, so he tries not to go anywhere on his own. There's no denying the inevitable, though, and a few days later he finds himself cornered in the empty gym.

Four sets of squeaking footsteps echo through the empty space as Stiles is practising movements with his lacrosse stick. He straightens up with a sigh, turning to face the four people he expects to be there.

"Dude, just leave me alone," he mutters irritably.

"I just don't understand how you're failing to listen to anything we tell you," Mitchell fake sighs, shaking his head. Stiles scoffs.

"We? I don't think I've ever heard any of your herd speak. Are they dumb?"

One of the men and the girl snarl angrily, pushing forward, but one word from Mitchell pushes them back. Stiles laughs.

"Very obedient, aren't they?"

Mitchell's face darkens ominously and he straightens up to full height, which is pretty frickin tall. Stiles isn't exactly short but these lot could make an empty auditorium look full. They're all wide-set too, Stiles notices, and he figures he should probably stop trying to wind them up if he doesn't want the shit kicked out of him.

"You don't know what you've got yourself into, coming here," he warns. "It was a really stupid move on your part. This is our school. Go back to your own."

"I - what?" Stiles splutters. Now they're attacking him over their school? It's not like they actually own the place! If it was their land or a house or something he'd understand, but school? "You're being utterly ridiculous."

Within seconds his lacrosse stick is no longer in his hands. He looks down at them in confusion and when he glances back up he gets a flash of silver before the handle of his lacrosse stick sails into his face.

Crying out in pain, he falls to the ground and clutches his hand to his mouth. Red splatters the floor of the gym when he pulls his hand away and he knows he's bleeding from his mouth in some way. Jesus christ. What the hell are they playing at? Stiles wants to know how the managed to take his lacrosse stick from the tight hold of his hands without him realising.

"What the fuck?" Stiles splutters, blood spitting everywhere. The girl looks severely unimpressed and disgusted in equal measure, taking a step back to avoid the bloody spray.

"We know why you're here, Stilinski," Mitchell hisses, bearing down on him, lacrosse stick still in his hand. "There's no point in trying to hide it any longer."

"What? I don't understand," Stiles snaps, still prodding at his mouth gingerly. He's glad his teeth are all still intact. 

"Still gonna act dumb, huh?"

Stiles is genuinely monumentally confused. They say they know why he's here. What, they know all of his friends decided to dump him and humiliate him? Why does it matter to them?

"You must be stupider than I thought, dude, because I haven't a fucking clue what you're chatting about," Stiles shrugs.

He regrets it two seconds later when the guy to Mitchell's left steps forward, and after a nod from Mitchell, ploughs his fist into Stiles' face.

Stiles comes to in the most uncomfortable position, his chin on his chest making his neck ache impossibly. Cracking his eyes open, his eyes are met by darkness, but he can make out the familiar shape of his steering wheel in front of him.

Oh, how kind. They took him back to his Jeep after they knocked him out. Aren't they just gentlemen?

An examination of his face in the rear mirror reveals an unfortunate situation for Stiles. His bottom lip is cracked open and bloody, with red smeared all down his chin. One of his eyes is swollen almost shut and already turning a nice shade of purple. Shit. What's his dad going to say?

Stiles is pretty sure they hadn't meant to knock him out, which is probably why they took him out of the gym and left him here. Maybe they don't know their own strength, Stiles thinks, head pounding. Really, he doesn't think they do at all. He's just a fragile little human after all. It reminds him of when the pack tried to stop him going out with them in case he got hurt, like that stopped him.

It did eventually.

He drives home slowly, not wanting to crash if he has concussion or something. Avoiding his dad would be ideal to be honest but the Sheriff just happens to be walking through the hallway when he walks in, scuppering any plans he had of shutting himself in his room for a week.

"Stiles!" John exclaims, pulling him forward. "Let me see that."

"Dad," he whines. "Leave it alone."

"Stiles, this has got to stop," the Sheriff says firmly, forcing Stiles to sit down in the front room and wait while he cleans him up. "You can't expect me to just sit back and watch you get treated like this."

Stiles knows his dad has been more than reasonable but he just can't bring himself to do anything about it. Mitchell isn't the sort of person to be put off by a telling-off. And it's not like it's an every day thing. Just every couple of weeks. Which doesn't really make it ok, but still.

"It's going to stop now, Dad," Stiles lies. "They just wanted something from me and I wouldn't give it to them. But it's all sorted now."

John doesn't look convinced as he wipes the dried blood from Stiles' face.

"Are you quite sure about that, Stiles?" he asks, voice disbelieving. "I know how bullies work. I don't think they're just suddenly going to stop."

"What else would they do, Dad?" Stiles bites back angrily. "Taper it off? Tie me to a tree and work their way down to just knocking my pencils on the floor?"

His dad looks taken aback and Stiles knows that was really unfair. When his dad gets up and then returns from the kitchen with an ice pack for his face Stiles apologises.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "But everything will be ok now. I'm pretty sure it will. Honest."

The Sheriff looks conflicted but simply shakes his head and goes upstairs, leaving Stiles alone in the front room with an icy cold face, feeling sick to his stomach.

-

Driving home from a long day at school a few days later, Stiles hears the tell-tale rumble of his stomach that tells him he's forgotten to eat today. He's is so hungry he has to pull over at a fast food joint to get a burger and some curly fries. He just hates that hollow, empty feeling in his stomach. He feels that enough these days as it is.

He doesn't bother to pick his feet up properly as he drags himself through the parking lot, remembering how much it used to annoy Boyd when people dragged their feet. He can remember Boyd wincing and gritting his teeth. As much as he didn't really say anything, Stiles thinks that Boyd is the kind of person everyone needs to be a part of their group. He's that balance against people like Stiles, keeping everything teetering in the middle.

There's litter surrounding the front door of the place and Stiles kicks it away irritably as he pulls open the door. Seriously, can't people even throw their rubbish in the trash any more?

He's barely past the door when he looks up and freezes. Lit up by the fluorescent strips on the ceiling, the tall, imposing frame is one he would recognise anywhere. He needs a haircut, Stiles can tell that even from behind, but he's dressed the same as ever: jeans, and as it's cold out, a leather jacket. Stiles isn't entirely sure what he's ordering, as he was under the impression that Derek didn't like fast food, but maybe he's wrong. It's not like he really knows Derek, is it? He thought he did, for a while, deluded himself into thinking he was the one who knew Derek best. Maybe he's ordering for the rest of the pack, or maybe it's just for himself.

Stiles can't face seeing Derek, can't face looking into the eyes of someone who has utterly betrayed him. Swallowing his misery, he's already moving backwards towards the door when Derek's body goes rigid, his head snapping up. Shit, thinks Stiles. He was so close to escaping.

When Derek turns his head, catching Stiles' eye directly with his own, Stiles doesn't stop moving. Derek's face is surprised, confused. It looks to Stiles as if Derek had forgotten he existed, just remembering as he catches the familiar scent. Derek turns to pay the impatient cashier, but by the time he's able to move away, Stiles has already disappeared into the parking lot.

He needs to get to his car. He needs to get to his fucking car and get away before he can see Derek again. It doesn't matter if he's hungry, he can wait until he gets home. It's not a huge deal. A huge deal is seeing someone who sets your pulse racing for the first time in weeks, months. A huge deal is seeing said person who brought your entire world crashing around your ears. Stiles' heart is pounding as he works himself up, so wired that when the hand touches his shoulder he's thrown it off and is stood two metres away before he knows what he's doing.

Derek's face is a picture. He's looking at Stiles as if he's never seen him before, dark eyes wide and confused. Stiles is glaring at him with pure hatred, his chest rising and falling with heavy, angry breaths. They stand for an unknown amount of time just like this, looking back at one another, waiting for the other to say something. Surprisingly, Stiles can keep his mouth shut, and Derek is the first to speak.

"What happened to your face?" he asks softly, catching Stiles off guard.

No, thinks Stiles. No. Derek does not get to suddenly become a nice person, a soft, caring person who cares about what the fuck happened to Stiles' face. Stiles won't be fooled by Derek simply putting on a nice fucking voice.

"It's nothing to do with you," he spits. He notices with large amounts of fury that Derek has somehow ended up being in between him and his Jeep.

"I want to know, Stiles," Derek says again, both authoritative and gentle at the same time. How does he even do that?

Stiles knows his face looks pretty shitty. His bust lip is all scabby and swollen and he's got a colourful black eye, but he doesn't really want to go round telling everyone he's getting bullied by the big scary mean people at school for being the weird new kid that attracted the wrong girl.

"What game are you playing, Derek?" Stiles asks, and it feel so strange to feel his lips form that name after so long. "Because I can't play along, ok? I can't deal with this. You've successfully destroyed my life, so now I'd be grateful if you could just stay out of it."

He attempts to storm past Derek towards the Jeep, ignoring his stupid reactions that Derek can probably sense, but an arm holds him back. Derek pulls Stiles to face him, much closer than Stiles is comfortable with right now, considering he's meant to be super angry with Derek, not close enough to smell that husky scent he didn't even realise he's been missing.

"I destroyed your life?" Derek repeats, and he's using that voice again, confused and upset and open, and Stiles tries to push Derek's hand away from his arm in anger.

"Stop it! Just stop! With that stupid soft voice trying to be all nice to me when I'm trying so hard to fucking hate you! I do, Derek, I fucking hate you. Apparently you're someone that has the power to take everything from someone in one second and that's what you did to me. I hope you enjoyed taking my childhood, too, because that's what you did when you turned Scott against me.

"Don't you dare give me that look, Derek. You aren't allowed to look guilty. You knew exactly what you were doing and you chose to do it anyway. Hope you're all having fun in your pathetic little pack without me."

He shuts up now, because he knows if he carries on he's going to embarrass himself by revealing just how much he wishes the last two months never happened.

"The pack's not doing too great, actually," Derek admits, clenching his jaw a little. "The witch we killed last year, her sister's not very happy with us. She's causing us a lot of trouble."

Stiles doesn't move, still giving Derek an unimpressed glare. "That's nice."

Derek sighs. "Come on, Stiles. If you could just tell us how to -"

"Oh my god," Stiles shouts, half-laughing in realisation. "So that's why you followed me out here. You need my help because you're the fucking shittiest Alpha California's ever seen!"

Derek blinks rapidly, his face betraying his hurt before he attempts to cover it up. He folds his arms across his tight chest, as if trying to fold in all his feelings. 

"That's not why I came out here, Stiles. And Erica and the others told me what you said to them in the cafeteria. I already know you think I'm the worst Alpha ever. You're right, I am."

"Well that's nice, are we trading secrets now? Are we going to be BFFs til the end of high school? Oh gee, I can't wait -"

"Stop it, Stiles," Derek growls, looking at him uncomfortably. "I don't like you when you're like this. It's not you."

Stiles throws his hands into the air with a laugh. "It's not me? I'm sorry, Derek, but I don't remember when you started knowing me so well. Maybe it was the time that you told all of my friends never to speak to me again."

Derek's struggling to hold in his winces each time that Stiles hits a nail on the head. Stiles isn't sure what's come over him; the rage and misery that have been drowning him for weeks are flooding out all at once to attack their source.

"I - I'm sorry, Stiles. I never -"

"Never thought about the consequences of your actions. Now if I remember rightly, isn't that the reason that you kicked me out in the first place?"

Silence. Derek doesn't reply, Stiles's words stinging like a punch in the gut. Not able to look at Derek's vulnerable face any longer, Stiles simply walks past him. Looking at Derek's vulnerable face while he was sleeping used to be one of Stiles' favourite things; now, in the dark parking lot, it just makes him feel sick.

"We need your help, Stiles," Derek repeats as Stiles is opening the door to his Jeep.

"Save it," he bites back, driving away with Derek's lonely, unmoving figure in his rear view mirror.

-

Stiles is so angry at school the next day that he completely ignores Leila's attempts to engage him in conversation at lunch.

"Come on, Stiles," she says, confused. "What's the matter with you?"

Stiles frowns, irritation gnawing away at his insides. He can't believe Derek's shitty attempt at trying to ask him for help. So he expected Stiles to just give him the answers he wanted and then not speak to him again until he needed more?

"It's nothing, Leila. Just leave it."

Leila looks unperturbed. Stiles is stabbing at his macaroni cheese with unnecessary force, bits of pasta flying off the tray and onto the table.

"Clearly," she drawls. "Look, you've obviously got something bothering you. Sometimes talking about it can make you feel better."

"I said drop it, okay!?" Stiles shouts, the cafeteria hushing around him as people turn to look. 

Hurt crosses her face and he feels a pang of guilt as he throws down his fork and stands to leave. People are staring at him and it's making him feel even worse, so he hurries out of the cafeteria and finds solace in the nearest bathroom.

"Come on, Stiles," he mutters, gripping one of the sinks with shaking fingers and looking up at his reflection in the mirror. He looks pretty shitty. I mean, he'd noticed before that he was looking more tired, but now his cheekbones jut out sharply and his eyes are dull, shineless, having lost their spark. He's still got the cut where his lip split and the fading bruise around his eye has gone yellow. He can't let himself get any worse than this.

And as if by fucking magic, the door to the bathroom flies open and Mitchell enters; but this time he's alone and Stiles is unnerved by it.

"Oh for goodness' sake," Stiles mutters. Does that guy ever go away?

"Is that any way to treat my girlfriend in front of half the school?" he hisses, advancing towards Stiles threateningly. Stiles watches him in the mirror as he comes closer and suddenly, Mitchell stops dead still, eyes widening fractionally.

Stiles doesn't want to question it, so he continues to watch warily in the reflection. Mitchell looks down at Stiles with an expression Stiles can't quite decipher; is it anger? Confusion? Smugness?

"Just watch your back, Stilinski," he warns, and Stiles can literally feel the relief wash through him. He's not up for being a punching bag today. "And take a shower. You reek."

With that he's gone, the door slamming behind him. Stiles blinks, confused, before taking a whiff at his underarms. He showered that morning. What the hell is Mitchell talking about? He realises he's wearing the same clothes as yesterday but they don't smell bad.

That dude must have a super sensitive nose.

Stiles leaves when another guy walks in, a nerdy kid that looks absolutely terrified to be anywhere near Stiles in case he gets beaten up too. He resolves to find Leila and apologise for his shitty behaviour, and so he heads down towards her locker, trying to keep his head down.

Leila's eyes sweep him up and down disapprovingly as he approaches and she looks away when he arrives next to her. 

"Leila, I'm really sorry," he says immediately. She preens slightly but keeps her hurt expression on her face. "I was being a douchebag. Friends?"

She pauses and throws a glance at him. "As long as you don't embarrass me in front of the whole cafeteria next time," she sniffs, head high in the air.

"I pinky promise," Stiles agrees with a grin. She looks down at him, the corners of her mouth downturned in an attempt to hide her smile.

"Well then, I suppose I could forgive you," she sighs dramatically, before landing a friendly punch on Stiles' arm. "Just stop being such a miserable so-and-so. Come on, we've got Biology."

Just like that, they're friends again. He supposes Mitchell isn't too pleased. He supposes he doesn't really care.

Weeks drag on like Stiles is running a marathon. Except the marathon isn't ending and Stiles is slowing down, weakening. He can't run for much longer and pretty soon he's going to have to stop; he can't bear to think of what that might mean.

His dad has pretty much given up on attempts to cheer Stiles up or make him do anything productive, and Stiles can see how much it's frustrating him. He's being snappy with Stiles because he doesn't know what else to do with him and Stiles has even heard him being snappy down the phone. Stiles doesn't want him jeopardising his job just because Stiles can't get a handle on his own life.

The night he overhears the Sheriff lose his tether to someone over the phone is the night Stiles attempts some normalcy. He sits with John and eats a frozen microwave meal (it seems his dad has kind of given up with the making meals thing), attempting to make normal, polite conversation. It's strained and awkward but he tries to do what any other normal kid would be doing, making conversation about people at school or his teachers or what things he's been learning. The pain in his dad's eyes make Stiles notice how much stress he's putting his dad under.

Stiles wants to go back to how things were, wants his dad and himself to be happy again. But he just can't get a focus on himself while this huge part of him seems to be missing; he drags himself up to his bedroom as usual and spends over an hour crying after the end of Bridge to Terabithia.

-

Stiles loses himself in the locker room showers after PE three weeks later, clenching his fists so hard that his blunt nails leave marks in his palms. He's lost in thoughts of the pack as the water soaks into his gym shorts and sticks them to his legs.

He remembers Derek asking him for help in that parking lot a few weeks ago. Said there was trouble with the dead witch's sister. Seeing as Stiles was somewhat involved in the killing of said witch, he hopes that she didn't realise and come after him as well as the others. He doesn't even care that he's being selfish any more; he misses them so much that he despises them for doing this to him.

Derek'd seemed desperate, though. Why else would he ask Stiles for help, someone whom he'd unceremoniously kicked out of his own pack? Stiles thinks of the pile of books on witches that's hidden in the back of his wardrobe with all his other pack things. There's no way Derek's getting access to that with the mountain ash circle around the house and the wolfsbane rubbed on all the entrances. Guess Derek will have to figure something out for himself. Or maybe he's got Lydia looking stuff up for him. 

The thought of his place in the pack being so easily filled sends a spasm of hurt through him and he hits the tiles on the wall with his palm. They must miss him. Stiles even misses Jackson a little bit from time to time, and he really doesn't like the guy at all.

He's lucky there's no team practices after school today, because he's been stood in the shower for fifteen minutes since the end of school bell rang, staring into space and chewing so much on his lip that he can taste blood.

Maybe Scott's adopted Isaac as his new best friend. They've seemed pretty close recently, and maybe it's not as hard as Stiles thinks to replace fifteen years of memories with a new friend.

He's so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn't hear the door open or the person who's entered until they're right behind him. A hand grabs the back of his neck and slams him forward into the shower tiles, his cheek squished up against the cold, shiny surface. He can see Mitchell's figure from the corner of his eye.

"What are you hanging around here for, Stilinski? Or should I say Hale?" he hisses.

Stiles literally freezes. What the hell? What does Mitchell know about Derek Hale, and why is he implying that Stiles has something to do with him any more?

"What are you talking about?" Stiles asks, his face still half-crushed. This is getting seriously weird.

"Oh," Mitchell laughs. "You thought we didn't know about that one, huh? You spent a lot of time hanging around with Hale and his teenagers. What was with the sudden move over here, huh?"

His tone suggests that he knows Stiles is holding back information, but in fact he's completely and utterly lost. How the hell do Mitchell and his buddies know about his old friends? He was pretty sure he'd never set eyes on any of them before his first day at Blue Pine, let alone telling them about his friendship groups.

Mitchell had called him a Hale, though, and that sort of thing was usually only said by packs. There's no way Mitchell knows about the werewolves, Stiles thinks, but the more he thinks about it the stronger his suspicions get. Mitchell has been acting extremely territorial all this time, both over his girl and his land. That's a typical werewolf trait, especially if he's an Alpha or second.

"I - we don't talk anymore," he gasps out, struggling for breath as Mitchell's grip tightens on his neck. He can't see the rest of the locker room, but it seems to be completely deserted, so no shouting for help. 

"You're lying," Mitchell accuses, but he sounds unsure, not hearing the tell-tale uptick in Stiles' heartbeat. "You saw him a few weeks ago."

"What - how did you know that?" Stiles stammers. "And I bumped into him by accident. We're not friends."

"You must be lying!" He sounds angry now, like all of his plans have fallen through.

"I'm not lying!" Stiles says loudly, and Mitchell removes his hand after applying a moment of extra pressure.

"You don't know what you've got yourself into, Stilinski," he says through bared teeth, and before Stiles can even blink he's lashed out and there's a stinging pain in Stiles' left side.

Mitchell's no longer in front of him; the click of the door a few moments later tells Stiles that he's disappeared. Hissing through his teeth at the pain, he clutches at his side, taking the brave decision to look down at it. There are four scratches, not dangerously deep but deep enough for them to bleed quite profusely. Stiles knows exactly what they look like: claw marks. 

Well, fuck. How the hell did he miss that one?

Stiles falls against the wall, shaken up by Mitchell's aggressive welcome. The now lukewarm water cascades across the cuts, staining the water a pinky brown around Stiles' feet. It's impossible, what he's thinking, although it might explain some things. How on earth could Mitchell be a werewolf and Stiles not notice? Maybe he smelled that Stiles had seen Derek a few weeks ago. Maybe that's what he'd meant when he told him to shower because he reeked.

He tells himself he's being stupid and tries to shove the idea out of his mind. Maybe the dude's just got really long nails. Some guys like that sort of thing, although the idea of any guy (that isn't wolfed out of course) with long nails makes him shudder. If he'd left Beacon Hills after being kicked out a werewolf pack and managed to walk straight into another one then he was a complete idiot.

Now that the seeds have been sown in his mind about packs, he wishes it was Friday. It is in fact Monday, which means he has to see all of them every day for the rest of the school week. This is not ideal, and he contemplates faking being sick, but there's no way his dad will let him off for more than one day unless he actually vomits all over him.

Finally, about an hour after school actually ended, Stiles walks over to his car in the empty parking lot. He's trying to avoid his shirt touching his scratched skin because it's super irritating. The hairs on the back of his neck are prickling, and he tries to subtly scan the area as he's getting into the Jeep, but he doesn't see anything. If there's one thing he hates, it's the idea of being watched.

The sensation is gone by the time he's home, but he still feels a wave of relief as he passes over the mountain ash barrier. Stiles thinks back to the shower encounter. Mitchell had seemed so... surprised to learn that Stiles didn't communicate with the pack any more. He sounded positively disappointed. Not as disappointed as Stiles, who tries to ignore the increasing desire to start crying welling up inside him.

-

Stiles hasn't slept all night. It's 5 in the morning and he's lying awake, staring at the ceiling, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks. Since when did his life become so pathetically lame? His skin feels molded to the sheets, stopping him from leaving the comfort of his bed. Curling up in a hard wooden corner would be much more appropriate to how he feels right now, but he lacks the energy to bother.

Sheriff Stilinski is working early shifts this week and Stiles heard him leave about an hour ago. He doesn't know where he'd be without his dad, who's there for Stiles even when he's completely furious with him. 

Suddenly there's the sound of a door closing downstairs, and a creak on the old wooden stairs, and Stiles stops breathing to listen in silence, his heart jackhammering in fright. There's no way his dad's back, and none of the pack can get through his barriers - if his theories are correct, neither can Mitchell. More warm tears follow their old paths down his face as he just lies in wait for whoever's coming up the stairs.

Imagine his surprise when the intruder knocks on his door. He opens his mouth in confusion, and manages to croak out a "hello?"

Through the dark he sees the door open, and can make out a large figure coming though the door. He panics, until the person speaks.

"Stiles?"

"How the hell did you get in?" he asks, kicking himself mentally for how scratchy and miserable his voice comes out.

He hears the click of the light switch and Derek's figure comes into view. Stiles' eyes feel like they're being blinded by the sun and he squints and blinks until he can open his eyes without being assaulted by light. Because talking to Derek while he's lying down in bed and Derek's standing uncomfortably by the door would be super awkward, Stiles sits up.

"I got Allison to break your mountain ash barrier by the front door yesterday," Derek admits, looking down.

Stiles blinks. Derek looks different. His cheeks are hollower, the dark circles under his eyes more prominent, and he looks like he needs a good meal. He looks stressed out; all the pressures he's under would normally be a shared load between Derek and Stiles. And to Stiles' great irritation, he still looks like a fucking model. 

"I spread wolfsbane all over the door handle," Stiles shoots back disbelievingly, and Derek gives the most sheepish look Stiles has ever seen and lifts up his right hand, which is red raw just like when the wolves had been tied up with those ropes.

Stiles falls back onto his pillow, throwing his arm over his face, and groans. Why is Derek doing this to him? He doesn't even care that he got wolfsbane all over his hand because he's managed to get into Stiles' room at last. Derek takes Stiles lying down as an invitation to come further into the room, and Stiles is torn between telling him to never talk to Stiles again and telling him never to leave Stiles again.

"Stiles, I'm an idiot," is Derek's opening line, and Stiles opens one eye.

"You're not an idiot, Derek, you're a fucking dick."

"I know," Derek stresses, sitting on the end of Stiles' bed. "I know. I made the biggest mistake anyone's ever made. I'm sorry."

Stiles is glad his arm is still a heavy weight across his face so that Derek doesn't see him screwing up his eyes to try and fight back his tears. It's not working, and he rolls onto his side so his back is to Derek. This is utterly humiliating.

"Don't cry any more, please," Derek begs. "Forgive me."

"I can't, Derek!" Stiles shouts. "I want to be so angry with you!"

"Do it then!" Derek yells back, trying to rile him up. "Be angry with me!"

Hearing Derek's voice like that for the first time in god knows how long switches something in Stiles. He gets up suddenly and paces up and down his room in front of Derek, who's still sitting on the bed looking like a man who's just been handed a guilty murder charge.

"You completely betrayed me! Everything wrong that you could have done, you did. You can't just expect me to forget how fucking awful my life is."

Stiles has never seen Derek like this. His cheeks are burning with shame, his eyes with regret. Stiles can see he knows he's done wrong but he wants Derek to feel even a shred of what he's been feeling for months. He wants Derek to know how much pain he's caused him.

"I fucking moved schools, Derek. My best friend since we could barely walk threw me away like I was absolutely nothing. I lost everyone, Derek, everyone who meant anything to me because I made one stupid mistake! Do you even know what that's like?"

He's still crying, not caring about the snot running out of his nose that is definitely not attractive. He's steamrolled out of things to say, his anger replaced by all the unhappy thoughts he's had since he was first kicked out of the pack, and comes to a stop right in front of where Derek is hanging his head.

"Yeah," Derek says.

Yeah, he does. Stiles remembers that Derek lost his entire family because of his naivety with Kate, and he knows that Derek has realised exactly how he's made Stiles feel. Derek wouldn't have wanted to subject anyone to that on purpose; he hadn't realised how similar the situations would end up being. Stiles kind of deflates in front of Derek. He can't be that angry with him any more even though he wants to be.

Derek's hands reach forward slowly and wind their way around Stiles' waist. Stiles' breath hitches; he and Derek had never crossed that line of unnecessary touching, no matter how much he might have liked to. The warmth of Derek's rough hands sliding around his hips to rest on his back sends tingles across his skin, and Derek pulls him closer so that his face is buried against Stiles' stomach, the prickles of his stubble tickling the exposed skin where his shirt has ridden up.

The familiar warmth and comfort is enough for Stiles to slide his hands around Derek's neck to let him know he's welcome, and he isn't forgiven but he's taken the first step to get there. They hold their position for a long time, Stiles sniffing away his crying fit and what feels like Derek trying to bury his burning shame in Stiles' abdomen.

"I haven't forgiven you," Stiles whispers, keeping his hands on Derek's neck so he knows not to leave.

"I don't expect you to," he murmurs against Stiles' stomach. He starts to move away and Stiles is disappointed at the loss of contact, but as Derek slides his hands back around his sides one catches the gashes on Stiles' side and he winces involuntarily.

"What's that?" Derek's got his concerned Alpha voice back again and god Stiles has missed it.

"Nothing, just some of the guys at school," he mutters, pulling his shirt down.

"Stiles, they look like claw marks," Derek frowns, pulling his shirt back up. Stiles feels like he's being fussed over by his mom, and the fact he's comfortable enough with Derek to let him do it is... strange. "Who did it, really?"

"I'm not lying," Stiles shrugs. "It was some guys at school. They really don't like me."

He rolls his eyes at himself. The last thing he needs to be doing is telling Derek he's being bullied or something. But Derek can hear he's not lying. He's not really sure if he wants to let Derek in on his suspicions of Mitchell's lot being a pack of rival werewolves, because that's probably the last thing he needs.

"Strange," he murmurs. "They look exactly like claw marks. Are they the guys that gave you the black eye?"

Stiles goes back to when he and Derek had the argument in the burger joint parking lot. He can remember how much he despised Derek, how much he wanted to avoid looking into his face for the first time in how long.

"Yeah," he says quietly, moving towards the bed and lying back on it. There's a pause before he speaks again. "I've never hated anyone as much as I hated you right then."

Derek shifts and lies back too, both of them staring up at the ceiling, centimetres from touching.

"Do you hate me now?" he asks.

Stiles still has a shred of irritability. "Yes," he lies, not wanting to be too forgiving. Derek smiles even though Stiles can't see, and moves his arm ever so slightly so that the skin of their forearms is touching. A silence falls upon them for a while, but Stiles doesn't feel awkward. He feels strange, like this is totally new, like he and Derek haven't seen each other in years. Derek's like this new enigma and Stiles isn't used to him being so soft around the edges.

"Why did you do it?" he whispers after a long time, so quiet that anybody else wouldn't have heard it.

He hears Derek's sigh, knows that he doesn't want to talk about it. But he needs answers, and Derek needs to give them.

"It wasn't really about us," he begins stiffly, and Stiles isn't sure who he's talking about when he says 'us'. "I know we can protect ourselves and it takes a lot to kill us. I - I was trying to protect you. You were going to get yourself killed, Stiles. I wasn't going to let you do that."

"Let me?" Stiles scoffs.

"I'm your Alpha, I have responsibilities to look after you."

Stiles can't help but be disappointed, and then get annoyed at himself. Come on Stiles, what did you expect? Maybe he really had imagined his and Derek's developing relationship.

"And I don't like it when you get hurt," Derek adds quietly, like he's embarrassed. 

They're still looking up at the ceiling and Stiles is glad Derek can't see the grin that's sneaked onto his face. So he can't have completely made up the way Derek had opened up to him before, and he can't imagine Derek being the way he's being now with Scott or Boyd or the others.

"I don't do it on purpose," Stiles grumbles, but he adjusts his fingers slightly so that they slowly entwine with Derek's. He's nervous, holding his breath in case this is too far past the line. He tries not to make his breath of relief obvious when Derek takes his hand firmly.

"I know. I won't hurt you ever again," he promises, and Stiles can't even pretend that his heart didn't skip a beat.

"Okay," is all he says, and despite the fact he's been awake all night, he's ready to sleep now. Some time later, with his eyes closed, he feels Derek's arm snake around his waist, and he turns onto his side so that Derek is spooning him. If he were fully awake he'd be laughing at the fact that Derek Hale is a snuggler, but right now it's like a blanket of light keeping away all the dark things that have been haunting him for weeks, and so he pulls it closer around him like it might slip away.

Stiles doesn't wake up until around noon, but Derek is still beside him. Stiles isn't sure if he's really asleep when he rolls over to face him, but his eyes flicker open so Stiles thinks he was just waiting for him to wake up.

"Hi," Stiles mumbles sleepily. "What time is it? Oh shit, I missed school! My dad's gonna kill me."

"It's fine," Derek says quietly, shutting his eyes again. "One day won't hurt."

Stiles reasons with himself and ends up at the conclusion that this is true, but then he remembers Mitchell's attack yesterday. He's going to think Stiles is up to something, and that isn't good at all. Stiles has practically convinced himself that Mitchell's a werewolf now, and he feels like maybe this is something it would be useful to discuss with Derek. Not right now, though.

They're laying in amiable silence and Stiles finds it strange that yesterday he thought his life could get no worse, and now he's sharing a bed with Derek like they're best buddies. He considers whether he let Derek off too lightly, but remembers he hasn't fully forgiven him and the look on Derek's face last night is one of Stiles' weaknesses.

"You wanna go get some breakfast somewhere? Well, lunch I guess."

Derek seems to think about it and then gets up. "Okay."

He sounds unsure, and Stiles doesn't know if it's because he doesn't really want to go get food with Stiles or it's something else, but he doubts Derek would tell him either way. Derek doesn't really talk all the way from Stiles bedroom to his Jeep, and then there's nothing until they're at the cafe Stiles chooses either. Stiles is beginning to wonder if Derek thinks he's made a mistake in making up with Stiles, and he's gazing miserably at the menu when Derek kicks him under the table.

"Stop playing footsie with me," Stiles says in a stern voice, and to his surprise Derek grins back at him in return.

"Funny. What's up?" Derek asks, his smile disappearing. Stiles is disappointed; he's sure he won't be seeing it again for a while.

"Nothing."

"You haven't forgotten I'm a werewolf, have you?" Derek asks dryly, raising an eyebrow as he glances down at the menu.

"It's been so long I think I forgot your name," Stiles bites back. He's always complained about Derek's non-existent sense of humour, but now he's trying to be funny it's rubbing Stiles up the wrong way.

Derek blinks, not sure what to say, and ends up just looking down. Stiles then feels like a total dick, but the waitress comes over and he has to wait until they've both ordered to talk to him.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"Don't be," Derek says wearily, running a hand over his face. "I deserve it and I'll deserve it for weeks. Months."

Stiles is annoyed. Derek always blames himself when things go wrong and Stiles is never there to tell him otherwise; he blames himself so much that Stiles is surprised he isn't a giant messy ball of guilt. But now Stiles is in front of Derek feeling guilty and it is his fault this time. Stiles wants to comfort him, tell him he didn't do anything wrong, but this time he did and it hurt.

"You could have broken that mountain ash months ago," Stiles reasons out of the blue. Derek looks taken aback, fiddling with a paper napkin on the table. Stiles has never really seen him fidget before and he wonders if it's just because he wasn't paying enough attention before or whether he's making Derek uncomfortable.

"I was going to," he admits, looking Stiles straight in the eye. It makes Stiles blush, heat rising in his cheeks. "But you didn't want me or anyone else in there, it was clear. I didn't want to impose where I wasn't welcome."

Damn you, Derek, damn you and your stupid gentlemanly respectful ways. Yeah, it was supposed to keep people away from him for a while, but then he was just desperately miserable and wanted them all to come back begging for his forgiveness.

"You're always welcome when you're not being an asshole," Stiles mumbles into his pancakes that the waitress has just set down in front of him.

"Guess I won't be around much then," Derek says with a one-sided grin. It takes Stiles a minute to understand his joke.

"Oh, aren't you witty. What's happened to you? Did you decide you were going to take over my role as comedic relief in the pack?"

He says it offhand, not even thinking, but Derek tenses up. Stiles rolls his eyes, chewing the rest of his mouthful of pancakes before he speaks again.

"Dude, chill out," he says, waving his fork through the air. "I'm back to save you straining yourself trying to think of funny things to say. I know it's difficult for your grumpy soul."

Instead of the relaxed face Stiles expected to see Derek stays awkward and looks away from meeting Stiles' eye. His stomach drops, knowing something isn't right, but he tries not to let on.

"Anyway, I have something I think I should really tell you -" he begins, but Derek cuts him off.

"I can't let you back in the pack," he says, struggling over his words like it's a great effort.

Stiles doesn't say anything. What the hell was breaking into his house last night, sleeping in his bed, coming out to breakfast with him if it wasn't him letting Stiles back in the pack? He'd been about to voice his concerns over Mitchell but all thoughts of Blue Pine are way out of his mind now.

"What?" Stiles says, his voice dangerously low.

"I couldn't let you carry on being so unhappy!" Derek reasons, looking thoroughly miserable himself. "I thought if you could see a few of us every now and again it would make you happier -"

"Are you deluded?" Stiles asks with an incredulous laugh. "Are you actually fucking deluded? You think leading me on like this is going to make me happy?"

"Stiles, we're in so much trouble," Derek says, like he doesn't want to be sharing this information. He looks tired again, pale, washed out. "This witch won't leave and I know she's planning something big. Even Lydia can't find anything on how to get rid of -"

"Even Lydia," Stiles repeats, dazed. He feels sick, like Derek's been stringing him along on purpose to mess up his mind. "This is what this is all about, isn't it? You don't miss me at all!"

He actually thinks for a second he's going to throw up and gets to his feet, holding onto the back of his chair for support. Derek looks alarmed, his mouth slightly open, dark eyes wide, and if Stiles wasn't on the verge of vomiting he'd be groaning at how unfairly hot Derek looks.

"You just want my help because you're still a shit Alpha," Stiles shoots when he can trust himself to open his mouth and only have words spew out of it. "Do I mean nothing to any of you?"

Derek's eyes are glazed, his eyebrows pulled together in a desperately hurt expression. He stands up too, as if this will make Stiles see reason.

"You do, Stiles," he tries to sound firm, but Stiles is barely listening. "We're trying to protect you -"

Stiles turns and walks out of the cafe, ignoring a sympathetic look from an old lady three tables over who probably assumes they're having a lovers tiff. She's all fluffy and pastel-coloured and he feels mean for the angry glare she receives, but the expression's already on his face. Derek hastens to put money down on their table before following.

"Stiles, please!"

It's so, so hard to keep walking when he hears the break in Derek's voice but his head is spinning. These people keep pushing and pulling him back and forth and he doesn't know where he's supposed to belong any more.

He drives away without looking back this time. He doesn't think he can bear seeing the dark frame of Derek in his mirror without breaking down.

When Stiles returns home it's only about two. He immediately finds the break in his mountain ash circle and fixes it, and rubs a bit of extra wolfsbane oil on the door handle for good measure. Old Mrs Dean from across the road is definitely watching him through her net curtains but he's so furious he doesn't even care how strange he looks.

While he's infuriated with the pack and thinks he couldn't care less if they all got turned into snails by the witch and died, he would actually be quite bothered if they did die, so he digs into the back of his wardrobe and finds a familiar-looking pile of books. They sit on his desk for twenty minutes while he just stares at them.

Wow. He hasn't done this in a while. He knows exactly where to begin, but he's not sure he wants to. Why should he help them? They've done nothing to deserve it; in fact, quite the opposite. Stiles sighs. He knows he's going to help them anyway, and opens the first book.

The crunch of gravel around two thirty tell him his dad is back, so he quickly grabs all the books and stuffs them under the desk, leaping into the bed and tucking himself up. He's not been sleeping much at all and he always looks ill, so his dad probably won't even be sure if he's faking or not.

Sure enough, the first thing his dad does is come up and knock on Stiles' door. Stiles calls him in.

"I got a call from your school earlier," he explains, looking concerned. "Is everything ok, son?"

Stiles closes his eyes. He hates lying to his dad, but he doesn't have any other choice.

"It's fine, Dad. I just feel really shitty today. I'll go tomorrow, I promise."

His dad nods, knowing Stiles will keep his word. He gives a weary sigh, his features all crinkled up and tense. "Stiles, you know you can trust me with anything don't you? I know you've been having a really tough time. I just hope there isn't anything else going on that's making you so... so..."

The Sheriff trails off, not sure what he was going to say. Stiles is pretty sure he gets what his dad means though. Stiles hasn't been himself for weeks.

"I know, Dad. Everything's fine," he lies with a small smile. His dad just stares at him a moment, gives him a smile in return, and then nods and leaves.

As soon as he knows his dad's not going to come back in he leaps up and resumes his search through the old books. He knows what he's looking for is in here, and he finds it less than an hour later.

Two texts are sent from Stiles' phone at 15:24.The first is to Allison.

I know you meant well but please don't break my mountain ash circle again. Tell her too.

He feels a bit of a dick wording it that way, but they're the only human girls in the pack and he can't bring himself to address Lydia by name. None of them save Allison even deserve it. The second is to Derek, and a little bit longer.

Witches will hold family grudges until they die, so you're going to have to kill it. Mourning witches are pretty weak in terms of defense. Tend to go on the attack and don't protect themselves. Do with that what you want. Don't talk to me ever again.

He doesn't get a reply from either of them and he's happy, because he didn't want one.

-

Stiles goes to school the next day like he promised his dad. He's not sure if what happened with Derek made him feel better or worse, but he does know that he can't stop sighing and running his hands through his hair. It's all over the place already.

He hasn't seen Mitchell yet and that's kind of worrying him, but he spots Leila coming down the corridor after third period and knows Mitchell can't be far behind. He's got his pack with him (which is totally what Stiles is going to refer to them as now).

All he gets as Mitchell walks towards him is a menacing glare, but as Stiles gets closer Mitchell's eyes widen and he sniffs the air in a way that is subtle to anyone who's never met a werewolf. His head snaps towards Stiles' and Stiles meets his eyes, which are burning a deep, fiery red. 

Fuck. This isn't good. As pleased as Stiles was with his theory, he hasn't actually thought about the consequences of it being true. He panics and runs in the opposite direction, weaving in and out of students like he's dodging bullets. He accidentally knocks into Leila on the way, who looks angry until she sees who it is and who he is running from, after which she looks confused. She must be in on the fact that Mitchell's a werewolf, but probably not what his pack gets up to.

The Jeep is cold inside but Stiles has never been more grateful to sit in it. Without a second thought he pulls away and begins the lengthy drive back to Beacon Hills. There's no way he's subjecting himself to the wrath of a furious Alpha, especially one who's so angry with him in particular. He doesn't understand what's quite going on until he realises that he probably stinks of Derek, even though he told Mitchell just a few days ago that he doesn't speak to any of his old pack any more.

Which means whatever plans that Mitchell looked so disappointed that he had to ditch in the locker room are probably back on and Stiles isn't safe.

He's definitely not safe when he hears a growl and a loud bang; something or someone has slashed one of his tyres and the Jeep swerves out of control. Every muscle in Stiles' body is tensed, and he bites down on his lip like it'll save his life. His hands fly over the steering wheel, trying to change his course, but within seconds a huge tree trunk is zooming towards him, the world blurring into just colours around him, and then he can't remember anything.

When he wakes, the ground is dusty and a lingering smell fills the air. He tries to figure out what it is and settles on ash. It smells like burning in here. Tightly bound ropes grate against his wrists every time he tries to move them, so he stays still and opens his eyes.

He laughs. He actually laughs out loud. They've unknowingly brought him to the cabin in the woods, which Stiles hasn't seen since he began to run back for his bag all that time ago. He's even in the same room; it's dark but he can place exactly in his head where each of the wolves were tied up by the rogue hunters. Stiles wondered how they dealt with those, as they seem to have backed off. Probably got Chris Argent to sort it out. God forbid Derek actually take any responsibility and do anything for himself, Stiles thinks bitterly.

So now he's found himself in a hostage situation. Again. This is just fantastic. Stiles tries to shift himself to sit up, but his ankles are tied too and he's already sweating profoundly. Dude, he must stink. And is that blood?

His arm is coated in sticky red liquid, to which the ash and dust on the ground has attached itself. From the dull ache in his head, Stiles can guess that he whacked his forehead on the steering wheel when he crashed and the blood proceeded to dribble all over him.

Shit, the Jeep. Not only is Stiles in a hostage situation but the people he'd usually rely on to get him out of said hostage situation kicked him out of their pack and he recently told the Alpha never to contact him again. Shit.

Now he's getting worried. Usually in these kinds of situations he's a little concerned but - oh my god, he realises. He 100% trusts Derek to save him, to make sure he's okay, make sure nobody hurts him. And now Derek's gone. It makes his chest hurt so bad that he actually cries out, clutching his tied fists to himself in an attempt to make it stop. He prays so hard that somebody finds his poor crashed baby.

"Quit your whining," Mitchell's voice demands. Stiles hears his boots thud on the charred wooden floor as he enters the room.

"Why are you doing this?" Stiles rasps, his throat dry. It feels like his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth.

"Stop asking questions," Mitchell frowns, and Stiles can't help but think he's a little bit dumb.

"Do you even know why you're doing this?" Stiles asks in a slow, sarcastic voice. He regrets it three seconds later when Mitchell's boot squashes into the flesh of his stomach.

"Okay, got it," Stiles groans, his voice strained. "Sarcasm not appreciated."

"You'll be pleased to know I'm just following instructions," Mitchell says, crossing his arms and looking at the empty room in distaste. He didn't really look like he wanted to be there and he couldn't really sit down without getting covered in ash.

Mitchell's statement sets off alarm bells in Stiles' mind. Something is not right here. "But - but you're the Alpha?" he stammers in confusion.

"I know. Look, we don't want you," he says, cutting to the chase and waving his arm around off-handedly. "However, we are working for someone who does want you and so here you are. Imagine our delight when we realised the person we had to find had recently walked into our own school."

Stiles scowls, unsure of who the hell wants to kidnap him. "You look about 5 years too late to be starting senior year," he says through gritted teeth. He's extremely uncomfortable: he needs to pee desperately, he needs water for his throat and the sticky blood is making him itchy. Never mind the raging headache he's got going on.

"Probably because we are," Mitchell says, raising an eyebrow. Luckily for Stiles he's so bored hanging around keeping Stiles captive that he doesn't mind having a conversation with him; this give Stiles time to work his persuasive charms.

"Look, man, I understand you've got a job to do, I really do," Stiles begins. "But I'm really, really bustin' for a pee."

"No," Mitchell says immediately. "I'm not stupid."

I beg to differ, thinks Stiles.

"Fine, but if I mess myself you're the one who's gonna have to clean up the puddle, dude."

Stiles sincerely hopes that he doesn't wet himself because that would be eternally embarrassing. Just to add to the embarrassment if he does have an accident, the rest of the pack walk in with Leila. She covers her mouth when she sees Stiles, her tanned skin paling somewhat on her cheeks.

"Stiles..."

Mitchell's face clouds over. Stiles still can't see why he even thinks he has any competition in Stiles - Leila's so far out of his league he can't even see her league. It might as well not exist to him.

"Stay away from him, Leila," Mitchell warns.

"Dude," Stiles sighs. "You need to realise there's nothing to worry about here. She's way outta my league and besides, I'm pretty sure I might be gay."

He's just saying for Mitchell's sake, but somewhere inside it there might be a shed of truth. He still liked girls, but - Derek definitely wasn't a girl. And Stiles was going to have to come to terms with the fact that he really, really liked him.

Mitchell and his two betas step back automatically like Stiles is going to attempt to jump their bones. Out of the corner of his eyes Stiles sees the female beta roll her eyes.

"Don't worry, boys, you aren't my type," Stiles gushes, adding a wink for good measure. The three men look furious and they're starting to move towards Stiles until all four werewolves freeze, cocking their heads like they're listening to something.

"Shit. We have to go. Leila, keep this little shit exactly where he is or else," Mitchell demands, shoving a gun into Leila's hands before all four wolves exit.

Leila's staring at the shining silver gun in her hands as if it might explode. Her hands begin to shake a little and she turns to seek reassurance from Mitchell before she realises he's already gone and she's alone.

"It's okay," Stiles says softly. "The safety's on. If you're worried about it just put it down."

She looks up at him, her big brown eyes wide, and nods, placing the gun down next to the wall on the other side of the room.

"Why are they doing this to you?" she asks, coming and sitting down next to him on the floor. She only looks momentarily put-off by the blackened floorboards and Stiles is impressed by her general not-giving-a-shit.

"Well... You know you're kind of in Mitchell's pack, but you're human? Well I used to be in another pack and I don't think they like it. Ouch."

The ropes on Stiles' wrists are rubbing too hard on his skin, making it bleed. Leila frowns, loosens them a bit, and looks back at him.

"Why aren't you in the other pack any more?"

Stiles swallows and there's a lump stuck in his throat. "They kicked me out. Otherwise they'd be here right now saving my life."

Leila grimaces sadly and reaches her hand out to Stiles' head. She examines the cut for a few seconds before settling her hand into Stiles hair, stroking it in a kind gesture that makes Stiles feel like he's got a new best friend or perhaps a sister.

"So you moved schools to get away from your old pack, only you bumped into a new one and they didn't want you there."

"Yeah, pretty much. Why do you say 'they'? You talk about your pack like you aren't a part of it."

Leila bites her lip now and lets her dark brown hair fall over her face. She's ashamed of something, Stiles can tell.

"I'm not," she whispers, knowing Mitchell can hear her from far away. "I don't want to be, but I'm too scared to leave it. I'm hoping once senior year is over I can go away to college and we'll just drift apart."

Stiles doesn't have the heart to tell her that that isn't exactly how packs work.

"I wish I could have my pack back," Stiles says, more to himself than Leila.

"Get them back, then," she replies encouragingly.

"They kicked me out, Leila. They don't want me. And besides, I'm pretty sure there's not much I can do about it right now," he says, holding up his tied hands and legs in a pretty awkward manoeuvre.

She's biting her lip again, like she knows she's doing something bad. Before she can change her mind, she glances around before reaching over Stiles and fiddling with the tight knots holding him together. It takes her a while but Stiles is eternally grateful to be able to stand up and stretch. His wrists and ankles sting when the fabric of his clothes rubs against them, but there's nothing he can do.

"I'd love to give you a hug right now but I'm covered in -" he begins, before Leila cuts him off with a huge hug, not caring about his blood or the dirt.

"Are you going to get into trouble?" he asks, moving towards the door. Leila shakes her head.

"Not really. I'll cry and they'll let me off. Will you be okay?"

Stiles nods. "If you're sure. I'll be ok. Let me know that everything's alright, Leila. Please."

"I will," she promises. "Good luck, Stiles."

And he leaves what's left of the cabin.

Stumbling through the forest isn't exactly Stiles' ideal evening but it's better than being tied up a probably very dangerous previously-exploded cabin. Stiles is clumsy and his ankles twist sideways every time he stands on twigs and branches but he carries on. He's beginning to feel light-headed from the wound on his head and he's not sure where he is. He was trying to follow to route he and Isaac took when they first drove to the cabin but his brain's a bit fuzzy and he's lost in the dark.

He isn't even sure how long he's jogging for but eventually he's gasping for breath. There's a huge stitch in his side and he's pretty sure his ankles have been twisted in directions that he didn't even think were possible. He would give anything to stumble into one of the pack right now, out on a run maybe, even if they were absolutely horrible to him. His face feels warm and he wonders with surprise when he started crying. The tears are cleaning tracks through the dried blood on his cheeks. Stiles is contemplating stopping for a rest when from somewhere behind him he hears an unfamiliar howl echo through the night air, sending birds scattering from their branches.

He doesn't need telling twice. He sets off at a sprint even though he's in the most pain he can ever remember - everywhere hurts. There's no way he can outrun a werewolf, let alone four, but he just hopes that Leila is ok. He's sobbing in pain now, knowing that the wolves will be able to hear everything, and he's pretty much slowed down to a half-jog. Unsurprisingly, he hears a growl and then suddenly he's pounced on.

Crying out in pain, Stiles allows himself to be picked up by one of Mitchell's betas. He puts Stiles over his shoulder, which is super uncomfortable Stiles might add, before the wolves all hush.

"She's calling us again," Mitchell's voice comes from somewhere on his right. "She's really close by. Let's go."

And with that Stiles is caught, his vision swimming from tiredness and the wound and oh god, he's so tired. It's so uncomfortable being carried on the shoulder of a running werewolf. Stiles is just about to give up on consciousness when they stop moving and he's unceremoniously dropped from shoulder height onto the ground.

"Stiles!" comes a horrified squeak. Stiles recognises that squeak. He pushes himself up with his palms so he can meet Scott's tear-filled eyes, but his arms tremble and fall out from beneath him, so he can only look from his place on the ground.

A middle-aged woman stands at one side of a clearing, wearing a long dark blue cloak, and the Hale pack stand on the other side, all looking down in horrified, miserable guilt at Stiles. Stiles can see Derek more clearly than anyone and he recognises the look upon his face. It's the same look he wore in Stiles' bedroom when Stiles realised that Derek had once felt the same way he did, when his family burned because of his mistake with Kate.

"What have you done to him?" Erica growls, moving forward.

"Ah, Mitchell," the woman speaks, and Stiles realises she must be the witch. "I see you managed to bring me the boy. Not quite in the condition I requested."

"We're sorry, Eliza," Mitchell stutters. "A weak member of the pack let him go and we had to catch him again. He's a tough one."

"Too right he is," Scott shouts.

"No matter," the witch Eliza says, waving a gloved hand. "He's here now. I always wanted him to be the first to go. Originally I planned on using him to lure you all into one place, but that soon backfired. Not that I have any doubt that you would have come," she adds with a raise of one of her perfect eyebrows. "But he wouldn't have contacted you. Strong-willed."

Stiles is struggling to concentrate. He really just needs a big long sleep to cure his exhaustion and banging headache but to do that he's got to get out of here. He feels useless, lying face down in the mud and leaves of the ground, one cheek exposed to the air. 

Stiles directs his gaze at Derek, who as if able to feel it, turns and catches his eye. Stiles is still crying, and he gives Derek his most pleading look, begging him to let him sleep. Derek looks away and Stiles thinks he's rejecting him again, but instead he's addressing the witch.

"You're not going to kill any of us, especially Stiles," he says in that authoritative tone.

"See I don't think that's true," she drawls, her voice cold. "You killed my only sister. She was weak and her powers were almost gone and yet you still killed her."

"She was going to kill me and use my heart in a magic spell!" Erica shouts incredulously. "Of course we killed her!"

This, it appeared, is the wrong thing to say. The witch snarls and shoots out her hand towards Erica, who is lifted 20 feet into the air kicking and screaming before being thrown into a tree trunk. She doesn't get up, her blonde curls covering her face, but Stiles knows she's okay.

"Sacrificial magic is sometimes necessary," Eliza says icily, and Stiles can tell she's losing control of her anger. "It's just unfortunate for you that you fitted the necessary description."

Scott blinks, seeing that the witch's composure is slipping, and tries to egg her on.

"No, it's unfortunate for you because she picked on the wrong person and we beat her ass."

Eliza screams and clenches her fists angrily. Stiles is pretty sure the show-down is about to go down and hopes he's far enough out of the way of the line of fire. Mitchell and his pack are still stood behind Stiles, but once Eliza lifts up her hand and throws the first move, they slink back into the shadows to watch. Stiles guesses that they don't want to get involved because this isn't really their fight. They're not loyal to the witch; they did the one thing she asked them to get whatever it was she offered them.

There's a slash across Boyd's chest dripping blood all over the forest floor but he carries on as if he's just received a paper cut. The wolves are attempting to dodge the witch's spells while dashing forward to attack, but it doesn't seem to be working. They're getting rather bloody and Stiles knows the witch isn't even using her worst spells. He wonders if Derek bothered taking his advice on her poor defense.

And then out of the corner of his eye he spots her; Erica, whose body lay forgotten by the witch meters away, is slowly making her way around behind Eliza, who is distracted by the wolves attacking from the front. It's a great idea and Stiles can't help but wonder whether Derek actually planned an attack from behind or if it's just quick thinking on Erica's part.

Sensing that she's winning (wrongly, Stiles thinks), the witch cackles out a laugh and steps back, waving her hands dramatically. Stiles thinks it would be much more impressive if she had a Harry Potter wand rather than looking like she's got a nervous twitch in her arms. He feels funny all of a sudden, his light-headedness coming back in full force. It feels like he's floating on a cloud, the air pressing in on him from all sides, and it's at this point he realises the witch is levitating him in mid-air between herself and the pack, effectively creating a shield for herself.

A glance at the pack shows him their stricken faces but he knows it's just an act; Erica's advancing on Eliza. Erica's legs bend at the knee as she gathers the strength to leap forwards, attaching herself to the witch's back, and before the witch can do anything in response Erica has snaked her claws around the front of the witch's neck and slashed them across, bringing Eliza to her knees. She gargles something unintelligible and falls to the muddy ground. 

She must have been dead as the spell holding Stiles in the air breaks; he feels the whooshing sensation of falling somewhere in his stomach, but he's caught before he hits the ground.

"Is Stiles okay?" comes a desperate shout from a little way off. It sounds like Scott, although his brain is getting fuzzier by the minute.

A large but gentle hand assesses the cut on his forehead, lingering slightly as the fingers brush down his cheek. Derek's other hand is still holding him tightly (he's holding Stiles with only one hand. Jeez, how hot is that? Stiles makes a mental note to bring that up at a later time).

"I think he'll be alright," Derek murmurs quietly, and Stiles is grateful because a loud voice would probably not agree with his headache.

Another familiar voice pipes up from close by. Stiles has closed his eyes but he recognises who is there anyway.

"What about the other pack?" Boyd asks urgently. Stiles assumes Mitchell and the others are still on the edge of the clearing. He hears the crunching of leaves and snapping of twigs the suggests they're moving closer at the mention of their pack.

"You're not getting Stiles," Derek warns roughly, his arms tightening around Stiles' tired body. It's so comforting Stiles wants to snuggle up and go to sleep.

"We don't want him any more," Mitchell's voice rings clear through the clearing. "She offered us help with healing a human pack member and we took it. She healed them and we had to hold up our end of the bargain - get Stiles to her. So we did, and it's done."

"So you won't be coming near him again," Derek asks, although he says it as more of a statement than a question.

"On one condition," Mitchell says. Oh no. Stiles hates conditions. "He leaves Blue Pine. It's our territory and we can't have another pack walking all over it."

"Understandable," Derek says sharply. "Consider it done. I hope we don't cross paths again."

Stiles negates to point out that he isn't anyone's pack. There's some rustling and further footsteps and Stiles assumes that Mitchell's gone.

"Get him to the Camaro, Derek," Isaac says. "He needs to go to hospital."

"Nyuhhh," he mumbles, eyes still closed. He feels Derek shifting around. "'M'fine. Just need sleep."

"Stiles, you look a complete mess," Scott says, his hand coming to rest on Stiles' arm and then leaving it again quite quickly. "Ew."

"Worse than it looks," Stiles mumbles again. "No hospital. Sleep."

"Fine, we won't take you if you don't get any worse. Let's go," Derek states.

Sometime in the middle of the rocking motion that comes with Derek carrying Stiles as he walks, Stiles grabs a handful of Derek's soft shirt before the tiredness overcomes him completely and he's asleep.

-

When Stiles wakes up he's in his bed, tangled up in his duvet so impossibly it takes him a moment to remove his limbs.

Jeez, he's totally sore and aches all over. He feels at his forehead with his fingers and finds that the cut on his head has scabbed over. His wrists and ankles still have rope burns marring the pale skin and the claw marks on his side are almost faded, but apart from that he's completely fine. He feels so much more refreshed and clear-headed than the last time he can remember and it's amazing.

He remembers the pack fighting for him like he was still theirs. Does this mean they want him back now? Because if so they've got some serious grovelling to do. There's no way he's going to waltz back in like everything's just like it was before; the trust bond he'd built up over the years has been broken, or at least bent and twisted out of recognition.

Derek's furious face when Stiles was dropped into the clearing remains at the front of Stiles' mind, as does Scott's kicked-puppy expression. If Stiles didn't know any better then he'd say they still gave a fucking shit about him and he's so angry with them. What do they think they're playing at? Protecting him? That really worked.

Trying to call his dad takes a few attempts because his voice is underused and scratchy. While he listens to the Sheriff's footsteps coming up the stairs he notices all the blood has been cleaned off and he's in a pair of clean navy sweatpants. He frowns. Stiles doesn't own any navy sweatpants and these are a bit too big for him. The insides are all soft and every time he moves it feels like his legs are being caressed by feathers.

"Stiles," his dad breathes, not even knocking before he comes in. "You're awake."

The Sheriff comes forward straight away and sits on the edge of Stiles' bed before bringing him into a huge hug. The familiar way they fit together, the material of his dad's Sheriff's jacket, the hand patting him on the back all overwhelm him with a feeling of home. 

"How long have I been sleeping?" he asks as his dad pulls away and looks him in the eye.

"A few days," he admits, staying seated. "You were exhausted. The Hale kid brought you to the door but he said they'd already cleaned you up. He couldn't get over the threshold. How long have you had that protective circle up?"

Stiles looks away sheepishly as his dad raises his eyebrow with a smile. 

"Months. Look Dad, I'm really sorry. I said I'd try not to worry you any more by getting hurt and then this happens -"

But he's cut off by the Sheriff shaking his head and making a shushing motion with his hand. "No, Stiles. Don't apologise. I broke your little circle so he could come inside and explain what happened. This wasn't your fault at all. For once, you didn't actually go looking for trouble," he laughs.

Stiles knows his dad is right but he still feels guilty and it must show on his face.

"Stop feeling guilty, son," he says, ruffling Stiles' hair, taking good care not to catch the scab on his forehead. "I'm really proud of you for how well you've dealt with everything that's happened."

It takes Stiles a minute to reply because of the lump in his throat. Hearing that he's made his dad proud is the best thing he could have heard after all the times he's ever let him down. 

"Thanks, Dad. I love you."

John smiles fondly. "Love you too, son. I've got to go soon but is there anything you want me to bring up? Sandwich, juice?"

"Bacon sandwich?" Stiles grins hopefully. Twenty minutes later a plate of bacon sandwiches is sat on his lap.

"I think there's some people you need to talk to, Stiles," his dad says from his bedroom doorway. Stiles realises he must mean the pack. "You need to sort things out. They wouldn't bring you back here having already taken such good care of you if you didn't mean something to them. Hale looked like he was about to jump off a bridge."

Stiles wants to protest, the thought of another confrontation making him weary, but his dad shakes his head firmly and leaves.

He supposes he ought to get up and changed if he's going to see the pack. He wonders if they'll be all together at a meeting, which would make things easier. He takes off the sweatpants he's 100% sure belong to Derek and fold them up on his bed. Telling himself that he's going to take them back for Derek, he showers, changes and leaves them on his bed as he goes outside.

The Jeep is sat on the driveway looking as good as new. Clearly his dad had taken it to the garage for repairs while Stiles was out and he's eternally grateful. He wonders who found it and brought it back.

The only place he can assume they'll be is in Derek's apartment and he makes the drive with an unfaltering sense of deja vu. The last time he make this journey he was kicked out of his pack like he was nothing; he tries to tell himself that there's no way this visit could be any worse. It's clear they still want him, clear they still care.

The door is closed this time and he doesn't hesitate as he knocks. The door is opened almost instantly by Derek, whose face is a mixture of surprise and disbelief. His hand moves forward as if to touch Stiles' face but it pauses in mid-air and Derek drops it again. Stiles would be lying if he said he wasn't a little bit disappointed.

"You're okay," Derek states, still staring.

"Obviously," Stiles says sarcastically. "I appear to be standing here without having to be held up for once. I'm fine."

"I - good, that's good. Come in. We're all here."

Derek moves back to let Stiles through first and Stiles tries not to think about the contact as his shoulder brushes past Derek's chest. Derek addressed the pack as "we". Does that mean he expects Stiles back in the pack?

The moment he walks into the lounge he's surrounded on all sides by people, hands touching and feeling him to make sure he's alright and people in his face asking if he's okay. Thing is, he's not comfortable with these people anymore and the crowding is making him feel claustrophobic.

"Get off me," he insists, trying to claw his way out of the pack. "I said get off me!"

Silence falls suddenly and they all take a step back, surprised. "I didn't give you permission to start touching me up. I shouldn't even be here at all."

Scott's in front of Stiles and he looks like he's about to cry. 

"Stiles, we're so sorry. What we did was really horrible. It was so hard to treat you that way but you have to know we didn't mean it!"

"So that makes it okay? Because you didn't mean it?" Stiles asks angrily.

"No, it doesn't," Erica admits, putting a hand on Stiles' shoulder. He has to visibly refrain himself from shaking her off and a few seconds later she takes it away of her own accord. "We were doing it to protect you. We thought you would be safer without us, because we always seem to lead you into danger. Little did we know that it's you that leads us," she laughs with her wicked grin, and Stiles has to stop himself from smiling a little bit.

"I'm sorry," Boyd says, calm as usual, although his face looks ashamed. "I don't expect you to forgive me. But I'll wait until you're ready."

Stiles nods at him, appreciating his honesty and consideration for Stiles' feelings. Boyd is always the reasonable one in the pack and Stiles is beginning to appreciate him more and more.

"Do you even know how you made me feel?" Stiles asks, his face flushing in embarrassment as he remembers the way they completely cast him aside and they way he simply broke down. "You completely humiliated me and then destroyed my whole life. You're all fucking assholes."

They're all looking seriously ashamed of themselves when Derek speaks from behind Stiles. Derek walks forward to join the circle the pack has formed in the middle of the room.

"It was my idea, Stiles. I thought it was the only way to stop you putting yourself into danger. If you're going to be angry with anyone be angry with me."

"I am fucking angry with you!" Stiles shouts. "With all of you! Who do you think you are to play with my life as if it's nothing? And you expect me just to come back like nothing's happened?"

"Stiles, we miss you. We've missed you since you first walked out of here," Scott whines. "Seeing them drop you in that clearing was the worst thing I've ever watched and it was all out fault. You need to come back into the pack. I want to be able to protect you again, properly."

"Yeah, because your 'protection' really worked," Stiles scoffs.

"Not that kind of protection," Scott protests. "Proper protection. Like helping you kick some dude's ass in a fight. Finishing him off for you. Or being forever grateful that you've saved my ass a million times."

This conversation is so hard. Stiles is torn between hugging them all so hard and never letting them go and shouting at them all until he's blue in the face. But he can't let them get away with what they've done without realising just how terrible it was. He needs them to know that their trust needs rebuilding and his happiness needs to be returned. If they could give that back now that would be super.

"You've all got some fucking work to do," Stiles grumbles, turning to leave.

"Don't go," Isaac begs, and the other betas nod encouragingly.

"If you think I want to sit around and listen to you talk about all the things you've been doing without me for months then you're wrong," Stiles says, really playing the hurt card now. He just wants to be so annoyed, so angry with all of them.

"You can punch me if it makes you feel better," Scott pipes up with a cheeky grin. Stiles has to leave before any of them can see the smirk that creeps up onto his face.

"I'll see you," is all he says when he goes, but it's enough for the pack to hope.

When Stiles gets home he changes back into the navy sweatpants.

-

The Sheriff arranges for Stiles to enrol back in Beacon Hills High School, but he has a week off before he has to go back. He's met up with Scott a couple of times out in public places like Starbucks and the diner to try and work over some issues. It's probably Scott he's most betrayed by, followed by Derek. Scott, his supposed best friend. Scott's acting like he's killed Stiles' dad or something and it's really hard for Stiles to stay mad when Scott's so guilty and sad.

He's seen all the other betas once since the confrontation in Derek's apartment 3 days ago when they bumped into each other at the store. They engaged in friendly conversation, Stiles making sure not to be too buddy-buddy but trying to build bridges. The pack are trying so hard to make it up to him, trying to make him feel wanted again. It's really strange after so long in isolation.

Dinners with his dad become a regular thing again. Stiles enjoys spending the time cooking his dad meals again, and one day when his dad comes home early from work they make a lasagne together. John is so happy to see his son smiling again that he eats whatever Stiles makes him without complaint.

Stiles has just put his dishes away and is going upstairs when his dad calls him back. John's waiting in the hall and reaches into his coat as Stiles comes back down the stairs.

"I - uh - well, I'm really glad things are getting better for you, son. And I'm so proud. I picked this up at the store on the way home, I thought you might enjoy it -"

He's holding up a DVD, Man of Steel, pushing it towards Stiles.

"Dad, this is awesome!" Stiles grins.

"Well, I know how much you talked about it when it came out. I think you saw it about eight times. I just wanted to cheer you up a bit."

It's just a DVD but Stiles' heart is filled with warmth at the gesture from his dad. He takes the DVD and pulls his dad into a bone-crushing hug, pretending he doesn't feel like crying.

"Love you."

He watches the DVD that night but for some reason seeing the bearded, shirtless Henry Cavill unfortunately reminds him of Derek, whom he hasn't seen since the apartment. Stiles is disappointed Derek hasn't made any attempt to contact him, but then he remembers that Derek's preferred method of communication is jumping in through Stiles' bedroom window, and Stiles hasn't broken his mountain ash circle yet. 

Heart hammering, he goes over to the window, opens it and peers out.

"Hello?" he whispers to the air, feeling a bit stupid. There's no reply, but he races down the stairs and opens the front door. He breaks the circle and goes straight back inside, back up the stairs and into his room, where Derek Hale is stood in the middle of the carpet.

Stiles is slightly out of breath. He doesn't say anything as he enters and shuts the door, standing there looking back at Derek.

"Were you waiting outside?" Stiles asks, stupidly. He was obviously waiting outside. Stiles wonders if he's been waiting there every day since.

"I didn't want to intrude if you didn't want me here," Derek explains, and Stiles remembers him saying the same thing after he got Allison to break the circle.

"I said before, I like you being here when you're not being an asshole" Stiles quips, and Derek hides a smirk as he looks down. Stiles pretends it doesn't make his heart race.

Stiles is trying to be casual, so he goes and sits down on his bed and picks up the remote. He gestures towards where Man of Steel is paused on the tv.

"Wanna watch?"

Derek looks a bit awkward for a second before moving towards Stiles' bed and stretching himself out on the other side. Stiles unpauses the film but looks over to watch Derek instead.

"You look so much better than you did in that clearing," Derek murmurs, looking at the tv, and Stiles can hear the guilt in his tone.

"Yup," Stiles says casually, looking back at the screen. "Just this cut to heal and these stupid rope burns. I did try to tell you I thought those guys were werewolves, but you were too busy telling me I couldn't be back in the pack."

Derek's looking at him with concern again, and Stiles wants so bad to close the distance between them but Derek doesn't deserve Stiles' affections yet. Derek's hands reach forward towards Stiles' wrists, as if to examine the burns. He looks up questioningly.

"May I?"

Stiles bites his lip and doesn't miss the way Derek's eyes flicker down towards his mouth. Jesus, Stiles hopes this is a turn on.

"I suppose," he agrees grudgingly. Derek's fingertips pad against his skin as he picks up Stiles' wrist and turns it over a few times, looking at the red marks that remain.

"I'm sorry you got hurt," he says eventually.

"You don't like it when I get hurt," Stiles states, remembering what Derek said before.

Derek doesn't reply for a minute, still looking down at Stiles' hands. "No."

The tingle that Derek's hands leave on Stiles' skin moves up his arms along with Derek's hand. Stiles enjoys the touch so badly but he doesn't want to forgive Derek yet and pushes his hand away gently.

"I can't, Derek. Not now."

Derek looks disappointed but nods understandingly. "I get it."

Stiles feels a bit bad, so he settles back into the pillows, pushing Derek back into the pillows next to him. "Let's just watch the movie," he says.

Derek obliges and they sit and finish the movie in amiable silence. Stiles enjoys the presence but he can see how tense Derek is, desperate to grab Stiles and snuggle up to him and hug him in apology. He chews the inside of his lip before slowly bringing up his hand and resting it in Derek's hair, scratching his scalp and feeling content as the soft hair slides through his fingers.

Derek hums contentedly, pushing his head into Stiles' hand. He rolls his head round so he's facing Stiles and opens his eyes. Stiles catches his breath at the open expression on Derek's face, the look of want in his eyes. Derek moves slowly towards him and Stiles is so close he can feel Derek's breath on his face when he realises that he's moving too.

"Derek," he pleads, not sure what he's actually pleading for.

Derek sighs but begins to move back to settle back into his pillow. He doesn't let go of Stiles' hand though, which he kidnaps and holds up to his face. It's wrapped up in Derek's own hands and Stiles is pretty sure Derek is scenting his wrist and it's both weird and a massive turn on.

"I'll make it up to you," Derek promises. "I'm sorry," he says for the millionth time. Stiles knows he won't be able to hold out much longer, but for now he's saying no, no matter how much he'd love to reach forward and grab Derek and kiss him senseless.

Derek comes over every evening for the rest of the week, trying so hard to keep to Stiles' wishes even though Stiles can see he's desperate to take Stiles in his arms and hold onto him forever. Stiles can be pretty self-conscious when it comes to people liking him, but he's sure that Derek wants to be with Stiles as much as Stiles wants to be with him. 

It's Stiles first day back at Beacon Hills and the moment he gets out of the Jeep in the parking lot people are smiling at him, welcoming him back like the actually missed him. He's pretty sure he's never even spoken to half these people before but their welcoming words make him feel like he's walking on air. He's not even on the first step up to the doors before the pack surrounds him.

"Stiiiiiiiiiles is back!"

"Welcome back, Stiles."

"Hey look! My best friend is back!"

"We missed you, man."

They're all talking and shouting at once and Stiles isn't sure who's saying what, but unlike in Derek's apartment being surrounded by the pack gives him warm fuzzy feelings. It's not the same as before but they're working on it.

"Come on, dude," Scott grins. "Royalty is back."

And as Stiles walks down the corridor the pack is forcing a path through the other students, giving Stiles a wide berth to strut his way towards his locker like a VIP with an embarrassed grin on his face. Allison and Lydia are stood there waiting for him, both looking sheepish.

"Hi Stiles," Allison says quietly. Stiles feels less resentment towards her because she sneaked around behind Derek's back to talk to him, and he's pretty sure the only reason she broke his mountain ash circle was because she knows he's got it bad for Derek. He smiles at her genuinely. 

"Stiles, good," Lydia says briskly. "I need some help finding something for my history project. May I hire out your expert researching skills?"

Stiles knows this is as much of an apology as he's ever going to get from Lydia. He's a bit annoyed she can't even bring herself to apologise properly, so he gives her a nod in response.

His first day back is amazing. To be surrounded by those people, some he's known since he was a toddler, and especially his pack who are all being super nice to him, is like all his dreams have come true. Only a week or two ago he was saddled with misery.

The pack actually waits for him to sit down in the cafeteria before settling themselves around him casually. Scott gives Stiles his fries and he gets Lydia's orange juice, too. He wonders how long this spoilt treatment will last. He can probably milk it for weeks with Scott, he thinks with a grin.

Derek comes into his room at about eight thirty, later than usual, and Stiles is standing by his desk arranging things edgily. He was wondering whether Derek was going to turn up, even though he had every night for the past five days. He tries not to make his relief visible when he hears the soft thud of Derek's feet on the carpet and whirls round.

Derek looks strange. Stiles doesn't recognise the expression on his face, which is weird because he thought he'd figured out all of Derek's expressions ages ago. It makes Stiles panic, his heart beating so loud he can hear it pounding in his ears. He looks at Derek with wide eyes, questioning, and he sees Derek's hiding something behind his back.

"What?" he asks quickly. "What? What is it?"

Derek moves forwards, closing the distance between them in the room. Stiles' breathing is quick and his eyes are searching Derek's for answers, but it's not his eyes that give them.

Derek's arm moves out from behind his back and Stiles is presented with the most beautiful bouquet of red roses, so big he wonders how Derek managed to conceal it as he came in. The bright colours are a welcome assault Stiles' eyes and he laughs in relief. He thought Derek was coming to tell him terrible news or kick him out again or something equally as terrible.

Flushing scarlet, Derek begins to pull the flowers away and Stiles realises that Derek thinks he's laughing at him. Stiles' hands dart forward and take the flowers, and he throws them on his desk before seizing Derek's face in his hands and kissing him.

Immediately Derek's hands are everywhere, gripping Stiles' face tightly, rough calloused hands sliding over his stomach and across his back. Stiles finds himself backed up against the wall as his lips caress Derek's. Stubble scratches against his cheeks and he rakes his fingers down Derek's back, causing Derek to pull away, out of breath.

"Jesus, Stiles," he pants.

"You're an idiot," Stiles breathes, holding Derek close by linking his fingers around his neck.

"I was an idiot," Derek corrects. "I was trying to protect you but I ended up pushing you right into the hands of the bad guys."

"Yeah, that was pretty stupid," Stiles says, not taking his eyes away from Derek's. 

"Pretty stupid," Derek agrees, trailing his fingers across Stiles's side.

"I'm sorry I called you a shit Alpha," Stiles mumbles, distracted by the patterns Derek is tracing across his abdomen.

"It's okay," Derek murmurs, nuzzling against Stiles' neck, darting his tongue out to lick a trail over the artery that lies there. Stiles moves his head to give Derek better access. "I am a shit Alpha. But I'm getting better. I'm better when you're around to give me advice."

"Oh, I don't know," Stiles reasons, with a shiver at the feel of Derek's mouth on his throat. "I like it when you tell me what to do."

Derek pauses and pulls back. He smirks and raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Stiles blushes. "I - I just mean - when you use your Alpha voice. That bossy tone. It's really - ah."

He breaks off, embarrassed, and covers Derek's eyes with one of his hands. He can see Derek's grin fade as he takes Stiles' wrist and moves it away from his face.

"It's really what, Stiles?" he asks, lowering his voice into the Alpha tone. "Tell me."

"Fuck," Stiles moans, placing his hands on Derek's chest and pushing him backwards towards his bed. Derek turns, picking Stiles up with one arm and throwing him down onto the bed. Stiles barely has a second to realise what's happened before Derek is on top of him, pressing every inch of his body he can against Stiles', whose pulse is going through the roof. Derek's fingers inch under the hem of Stiles' shirt before he pulls it over his head.

"You were saying?" Derek says into Stiles' chest as he kisses his way down.

"I - uh -" 

Stiles' brain is going fuzzy. He can't believe this is happening, even though he can feel Derek's hot breath against his skin and his hands - well, everywhere. He's biting his lip, trying to keep a groan from escaping his mouth, when Derek glances up.

"You need to stop doing that, Stiles," he warns, moving up to put his face next to Stiles'. "It's really - ah."

Stiles almost comes right there at the look in Derek's eyes. Last time Derek caught him chewing his lip Stiles hoped it was a turn on, and now he learns it fucking is. Fuck.

"You mean this?" he asks coyly, his bottom lip in his mouth, and Derek growls somewhere in the back of his throat and dips his head, taking Stiles' lip from his mouth with his teeth.

"Mmm-hmm," Derek moans into Stiles' mouth, making his skin vibrate and a shiver pass down his spine.

Stiles is painfully hard already, catching his breath every time Derek's body rubs against his dick. He's pretty sure Derek's not bothered about making this last by the way he's grinding against him, desperate to touch every inch of Stiles all at once. Stiles thrusts upwards to meet Derek's, causing them both to groan desperately. Stiles wants to feel more of his skin, be able to slide his hands across it, so he pulls roughly at Derek's shirt until he gets the message and lets Stiles pull it off, throwing it to the floor carelessly.

"Why would you deny me this all this time?" Stiles asks breathlessly, scraping his fingernails down Derek's back as a jolt of pleasure overwhelms him.

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek growls, holding Stiles' head tightly between his palms and pulling him into a rough, desperate kiss. Stiles' eyes roll back into head at the feeling that strong voice gives him. As his hand trails up Derek's side Derek wriggles, snorting out a laugh. Stiles gapes. Is Derek ticklish?

"Stop that," Derek orders, butting Stiles' chest with his head. Stiles struggles to hold back a laugh but then Derek rubs against him just right and everything else leaves his head.

Stiles hasn't been waiting all this time to be able to touch Derek to not actually touch him. He's nervous, scared he'll do something embarrassing or be no good, but he takes a deep breath and slides his hand down Derek's chest towards the button on his jeans, which he begins to undo with one hand until they're loose enough for Stiles to slide his hand inside.

Derek stills mid-kiss and for a moment Stiles panics, thinking Derek doesn't want this. But then Derek groans in frustration that Stiles' hand is lying still around his dick and Stiles begins to stroke him up and down with increasing speed. Derek's almost there already and his head falls down onto Stiles' shoulder; he turns his head to the side and drags his teeth down Stiles's neck.

"Stiles," Derek whines, and seconds later Stiles feels hot come spilling over his hand, which he wipes on Derek's boxers. Derek's head is still buried in the crook of Stiles' neck, and he nudges him forward so that he can see the look on Derek's face. Derek leans his forehead against Stiles', his mouth slack and eyes half-closed in pleasure. Stiles has never loved anyone's expression so much, especially as it's on Derek, who opens his eyes now and stares into Stiles'.

Without breaking eye contact, Derek pulls back and slides down Stiles' chest, rubbing his stubble across the skin and making Stiles wriggle with impatience. He can just about see Derek's grin as he pulls down Stiles' pants and his heart begins to hammer in his chest with anticipation. He's breathing heavily, desperate for Derek to touch him, so much so that when Derek finally licks down Stiles' cock he moans loudly and thrusts forwards.

Derek's face is still flushed from his orgasm and when he hears Stiles' moan he wastes no time in taking Stiles fully into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and sucking upwards slowly. Stiles' hands are fisting the bedsheets and Derek has to hold down his hips with a firm hand.

Stiles doesn't last very long and he mumbles a warning to Derek, but he doesn't pull away and swallows Stiles' come without complaint, sucking him clean before dropping himself on the bed next to Stiles, an arm pulling Stiles close to his chest.

"Dude," Stiles breathes a few minutes later when he's come down. "You're amazing."

Derek grins, his eyes closed, and kisses Stiles sweetly on the cheek. Stiles blushes like a little girl and can't take the smile off his face either.

"You're just a big softie, aren't you?" he smirks happily, stroking his thumb across Derek's neck.

"No," Derek says with a growl, but Stiles knows he's kidding.

"Of course not," Stiles says in an over-exaggerated voice. "Alphas aren't allowed to be softies. They have to be all miserable and scary and frowny."

"Am I miserable and scary and frowny now?" Derek asks, eyes still closed, forehead still lying against Stiles'.

"No," Stiles replies, surprising himself with the revelation that he makes Derek happy. Derek hears the tone of his voice and opens his eyes.

"Don't be so surprised, Stiles," he says. "Now shush and go to sleep with me."

Derek kicks off his pants until he's naked next to Stiles, who wastes no time in doing the same. Derek grabs him again, adjusting him until Stiles is the little spoon to Derek's big spoon, which still makes Stiles grin like an idiot.

"You're not going to fool me into believing that you're not cute," Stiles warns and Derek bites his earlobe.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Stiles is so happy he thinks he won't ever be able to sleep, but it comes across him surprisingly quickly with the warm comfort of Derek holding onto him like a second blanket.

Stiles is really glad his dad usually knocks before he checks on Stiles, and if Stiles doesn't answer he goes away. Because if he walked in now and saw the way Derek is wrapped around him he might have a minor heart attack. Derek's head snuggles into Stiles' chest as Stiles rakes his fingers through his hair, enjoying the warmth radiating from Derek's body. His leg is thrown over Stiles' thigh and his arms are wrapped around him protectively.

"Someone's snuggly," Stiles teases, holding him close.

"Only with you," Derek says into Stiles' chest, the sound vibrating pleasantly against the skin. "Tell anyone and I'll kill you."

"Scout's honour," Stiles grins. "I love the flowers."

"Tell anyone about that and I'll really kill you," Derek threatens, moving back and playfully pulling Stiles into a headlock. Stiles laughs and trails his fingers along Derek's side at the ticklish point he found last night, and Derek can only hold out for a few seconds before he bursts into laughter and sets Stiles free. "Okay, okay, you win," he grumbles. "I'm glad you like them though."

Stiles feels a serious moment coming on and he hopes it's one that's going to give him warm fuzzy feelings inside. He's been seriously lacking in them recently and he could do with some more. Derek's closed his eyes again and pulled Stiles flush against him with one arm. He's wearing that expression. The vulnerable face that Stiles used to so love watching when Derek was sleeping, the one he thought he might never see again.

"I knew when you showed me them that I really must mean something to you if you would risk looking like a total idiot (which you didn't, obviously, because I loved them and I totally didn't just imply that I'm super important or anything) just for me, so -" Stiles is rambling and he can't stop talking and then Derek reaches up and places a hand over his mouth. It's really hard to resist the urge to dart his tongue out and lick Derek's palm.

"Stiles," Derek says quietly, his cheeks turning slightly pink. "You mean everything to me."

Stiles can't breathe, he can't stop the face-splitting grin that lights up his face. Never in his life did he think that somebody would say that to him, let alone someone who means the world to him too. The chances of love are so slim; of all the people you meet, that one person you love happens to love you back too. Love is a rarity, something to be cherished.

"I think I'm in love with you."

The words slip out before Stiles' non-existent brain filter can process them. He looks back at Derek with bated breath, waiting to see if he's scared him off or freaked him out. Derek's just looking at him in disbelief, and Stiles realises that maybe Derek never thought that anyone would say that to him. Derek thinks he's damaged and that no-one's ever going to love him, but Stiles has blown that right out of the water.

Moving slowly closer, Derek presses the softest of kisses to Stiles' lips, so chaste they're barely touching, infuriatingly close.

"I know I'm in love with you," Derek mumbles, with each word his lips brushing against Stiles', whose heart leaps in his chest as he yanks Derek's head closer to kiss him properly.

"You still owe me - big time -" Stiles gasps between kisses, causing Derek to pull back and raise an eyebrow, pushing Stiles roughly onto his back and flipping his own thigh over so he's sitting over Stiles' legs. 

"I do, don't I?" he says lowly, leaning forward and pulling at the waistband of Stiles' sweats with his teeth, gazing up at Stiles. "Guess I've got some making up to do."


End file.
